Animus
by IsForWinners
Summary: All things considered, I can't help but get a little antsy when Undersee starts talking to me like an actual human *AU MJ *
1. Monster in Lace and Ribbons

**Disclaimers;** Obviously doesn't own. If I did. This pairing would be cannon. :)

**Warning;** Alrighties, so I going to say this straight up. This is going to be significantly less YA than my two other Hunger Games stories. There's going to be swearing, quite often, there's going to be semi-ish graphic sex, there's going to be themes of alcoholism, death and addiction. I don't expect this to be everyone's cup of tea, so if you feel uncomfortable I'm not even sorry, but please feel free stop reading. However flames about the inclusion of these themes are unappreciated, and will be ignored. Feel free to rip on my proof-reading skills (or lack thereof) though. ;) It's worth while to note that because I don't have to write this with the intent of it being sold to a YA audience, It might also be a mite OOC, but I'll try to keep the characters.. er, themselves? And if you think something could be improved. DO NOT hesitate to let me know. I am always keen to here _constructive_ feedback from people who for some reason actually read this. You are all beautiful and I highly value your opinions lovely citizens of the internet.

Cheers in advance.

Is

**Animus **

Prologue; _Part Un_

**A Monster in Lace and Ribbons.  
**

**...**

(Madge)

The digital-record plays out just as my hands place the hollow syringe, the last god-awful one of the pile, back on the bed side table. The birch one, not the mahogany – mother likes-_liked_ to keep the mahogany table clear. Resting on it but one weathered sepia-photograph of three girls, two identical, laughing. I stare at my hands, expecting to see them show some indication of what I have just done.

They remain deceptively unblemished.

I stare in wonder, willing black claws to sprout in place of my fingernails, or horns to grow forth from my knuckles. All ghouls, ghosts and wraiths from the fairy stories had them. The most awful ones. The monsters. The ones who kill.

The stillness of the room is stifling, the darkness is choking. To be cautious, thorough, I force myself creep back towards the bed, my breath stirring still air around me. I hold the mirror up to her mouth - _just like this, Margaret darling, press the syringe down, yes sweetie, right into Mummies arm and –_ no foggy breath spreads across the surface.

Dead. As still as if she were sleeping. Dead and I killed her.

"I had no choice" I mutter to the particles of dust shimmering in the light as dusk filters through my mothers window. The curtains open for the first time in years, decades, I can't even remember when this room wasn't used as a sickbed.

_But you did, __that hatefully logical voice in my mind answers._

"It was Mercy." I plead the excuse to it, with myself, "She was my mother. I didn't want this."

_You didn't stop it._

_"_I should have said no."

___She shouldn't have asked __you. _

Startling me out of this brief moment of insanity are all too familiar sounds. The creak of footsteps on the landing outside, the scrape of the leaves across the window masking for a moment the low alien droning as though from a large engine far, far away. All these sounds alert me, save me, anchor me to the present. The _here_ and the_ now._

The here being a condemned district and the now being our impending death. The thought, for some reason, allows me to pull my self back together and not disintegrate into a pile of hopelessness on the rug. I swallow down bile and brush tears barely even formed from my face._ Papa_. I tell myself, forcing trembling legs to the door. _Now you must focus on Papa._

He's waiting there. Tall and as calm and as unflappable as ever. There are few things in this world that I have seen put a crack in Papa's composure, I'm a little proud to say on a few occasions I have been one of them. Looking thinner and more tired then ever before, his health has been declining. He tried to hide it from me, but I could see it, all these long years being the only defence this pathetic pile of coal dust and misery ever had against the harsh whip of the Capitol. Oh, and it was never enough. My whole life I could feel their eyes on me, greedy, resentful, ignorant eyes. _Why?_ They beseeched ,_ why do you have so much and we so little. _Mothers with accusation in their eyes. _Why do my children starve when you walk around with a full stomach in lace and ribbons? Why do you do this to us? _My fathers' _loyal _citizens. A joke. If only they knew. . If only they knew the lengths he has been going to for years to keep their little transgressions hidden, ignored. Of the birthdays he missed, the recitals, the school plays. Of my _nurturing _Grandmother brought in to raise me, the Queen of cruel and unusual punishment, because my own mother could not. I push thoughts of that crusty vaginal sponge away when they threaten to break the thread of my righteous self-pity, shunning memories of my early childhood. _If only they knew_ what became of the other more notable districts. Those governed by men who have not even a thimble full of the integrity that my father possessed in every fiber of his being.

Admittedly they'd had a taste of it. Of the real extent of the cruelty and oppression permitted under the laws of our _glorious nation_. Of peacekeepers, of those who are not loyal to my father first and the President second. My mind crawls unbidden to that day. Memories of Darius, who was so brave and so charming and the wet sound of the fist hitting his head _so hard. O_f the sight of fresh blood soaking into snow. Of the crack of that monsters awful whip over and over and over. Of _his_ screams made even worse because he was trying so hard not to make a sound...

Of stolen needles, blizzards and horrible colds. The contrast of the morphling madness in Mothers eyes and the weakness in her hand as she had attempted to slap me when I had told her what I had done and how so very easy it was to bring up my own and stop her.

I look and my hands, not a stain on them, and wonder, if-? yes, I am a Monster too.

A Monster in lace and ribbons.

"Madge?" Papa murmurs in his soft steady voice, the barest curl of a question mark handing from the statement. He hadn't been able to do it, the tremor in his hands that causes ink to fleck up over all his sleeves wouldn't allow him. Not like my own hands who always obey me, whether that means dancing over the keys of the piano or sliding that awful needle into her veins, they never disappoint me. When I can't seem to look up from my hands (musicians hands – _murderers hands_) he pulls me gently towards him until I am clutching the familiar fabric of his thick velvet nightrobe, stained with the smell of brandy and cigars to bury my face in it sobbing so hard in his arms I hiccup and snot quickly begins to drip from my nose into the fabric.

The sound still is not loud enough to swallow the droning.

"There, there my little princess." He murmurs into my hair. "It's going to be all right."

"P-papa...I-I'm _scared_." The words bubble up from my mouth muffled, I am powerless and weak. I hate it. A little girl, scared and weak and angry. Behind the sobs and hiccups a queer memory comes to mind. Me doing the same thing, sobbing into my fathers ink-stained nightgown when I had been young and fat (plump would be a very generous term) with braces and spots and I found out they had all called me '_moo-moo-Madge the Mayors Daughter_' behind my back because I had sweets and cakes and pastries any time I pleased and they all were starving. I had heard a group of Dog-eaters, boys from the seam making fun of me behind the shed on my first day of upper school – My own fault I guess, I had snuck out there because... well, it doesn't matter now. They were mimicking a cow and teasing one of their friends who had helped me find my locker because I was late and lost and his mother had worked for us once...The memory twists some deep raw wound inside me that helps quell my hysterics somewhat, anger and humiliation replace it instead.. I _should_ have called them on it and_ dared _them to say it to my face, but I hadn't. I can't ever remember feeling so stupid and humiliated and later_ angry, _I had run away as far as my pudgy legs would take me just as they were telling him he could be the next mayor if he had wanted all he had to do was get little_ moo-moo_ up to the slag heap. I was barely eleven and hadn't even known what that meant... He had shook his head, disgusted, shoved the boy making the cow noises and laughed with them. _Laughed._

I remember that night, sniveling to my father with the notion of securing my retribution via legions of peacekeepers to break down their doors and smash all their toys and tread in their gardens. (A trivial wish, my ignorance on the consequences of poverty at this point in my life being what it was, it had never occurred to me that very few children in the seam had toys actually worth smashing), But instead he had held me, made the appropriate soothing noising as I had sobbed out my tragic tale of woe and humiliation, stoically accepted my declaration that I would never return to upper school again, carried me to bed and told me a lengthy and highly satisfying story of a princess who was unfortunate enough to have a huge wart on the end of her nose.

The peasants mocked her so much for being ugly that she vowed to hide her pain from the world. Instead in anger she smashed all the mirrors in her castle and then spent her time diligently studying her books and lessons, playing chess with the King, practicing her piano and brushing her golden hair one hundred times every night.

And then eventually after years had passed she became the most learned girl in the land and could play piano so flawlessly that even the mockingjays outside her window could not mimic the beauty of her song. Her hair was a soft and as beautiful as spun gold and she slaughtered her father at the game every time they played. All of this, my father had told me, tucking the covers up around my shoulders as my eyes drooped, made the girl so happy and content with who she was that being beautiful didn't matter any more and the words of the ignorant peasants didn't hurt her.

Looking back, the analogy was rather thinly veiled, but the moral couldn't have been more well received. _Sticks and Stones may break my bones, _but words will never hurt me.

Of course the end of the story was that the princess had been too busy developing her skills and self-confidence that she hadn't noticed that the warts on her face had faded and when she finally left the castle one day she had become the most beautiful girl in the land and all the peasants brought her flowers and begged her for a kiss, even Princes and Kings of other lands had came merely for the pleasure of asking the King for her hand in marriage. The Princess, of course, scorned the offers of marriage and kisses, threw the flowers back at the peasants and flew away to the moon on her flying rainbow unicorn where she lived happily ever after to the end of her days. (_And no Princess you cannot have a rainbow unicorn for your birthday_.) (_But, why Papa?_)

The memory brings an unbidden smile to my face. Even as the humming gets louder I find happiness for the first time. I push myself from my father's chest and crane up to look at his face. My own green eyes stare down at me, only paler, more omnipotent. They crinkle a little in an attempted comforting smile. It looks uncomfortable on the normally tired yet unyielding default expression of my Papa who is burdened weekly with political battles against the capitol fat-cats, greasy officials and pushy representatives from the coal distribution agency who hammer him with appeals, bribes and all manner of underhanded tactics in order to have the minimum wage decreased or maximum work days lengthened, among other such considerations.

I lean up and plant a small kiss on his cheek as I realise that I am not so very scared any more. Because although we're going to die, so soon and so horribly, at least I won't be alone. I'll be with the only person left I am sure to love in this world. The only other person like me.

We'll do it together.

It's not much, but I am content with it.

And then, just as I've reached this epiphany and am calm in the face of my impending doom, some inconsiderate _asshole _begins trying to kick our front door in.

….

(Gale)

It's just as I'm herding the Everdeens through the Square - Mrs E a few paces ahead of me and half carrying Prim with Rory, _who never listens when he's told to just stay put_, close behind me at a quick trot Prim's things slung over his bony shoulders - that I remember _her. _

I remember her because we pass the whipping post. With the pavement beneath it stained a murky brown. The colour of dried blood, some of it mine. Briefly the memory of pain, excruciating agony, like white hot fire opening up under my skin, over, and over again is all I feel. I remember the relief, cool liquid relief and then the press of Catnip's lips against mine, hot and chapped, but sweet and-_God-fucking-dammit- _I can't leave _her____.____They probably evacuated her and her important Daddy hours ago__. The logical hardened part of my brain rebuts._

_ But.. What if they didn't?_

Wheeling around I set Prim down, she's shaking, eyes wide with fear.

"Gale?" Rory begins and the panic in his voice is palpable. He has to raise his voice over the sound of our approaching death.

"What are you-"

"I've got to get someone." I tell him shortly, my mind already tracing the path to the Mayors house. It's not far from the square, thankfully. Real terror flickers in my kid brothers eyes. It's like a kick to the gut. I try for a bracing '_I've got it covered_' smirk and ruffle his hair. "Don't worry Kid. I'll meet you at the meadow, like I said."

"I'll come with-"

I don't have time for this.

"_No,_" I override gruffly, harsher than I mean too. He flinches back, clearly hurt. Shit. "No, look. Rory you've got to get the Everdeen's to the meadow, tell Ma I'll meet you."

Prim takes his hand, her lower lip trembling. "Come on Rory," She says in a hush whisper, "We'll see Gale soon."

Thank you Primrose Everdeen.

Roary swallows thickly, his adams apple bobbing, trying to be brave. Wanting to be a man, I wanted that too once. Difference is I got my wish, and here we are.

Kids are idiots. Soon I'm watching the three of them as they resume their half-jog half-run to the other end of town.

And then I'm running, hard and fast, skidding down the lane way behind the bakery. The lights are on. Briefly I consider stopping, but decide against it just as quickly. If I try to save every snotty merchant around here, I might as well slit my throat now.

Besides, I owe the Baker no favours; his son is as good as dead anyway.

Volting low over the fence of Fort Undersee with its three stories and impeccably maintained garden, I'm once again struck by the sheer pointlessness of the place. Three people live here, and yet you could easily fit in half the seem if you wanted. Who needs that much space? I'd be happy with a relatively flea-free mattress on the floor. Could make do with a good soft bit of dirt if I had to.

And then I'm hammering on their front door hard enough to break my arm. An odd experience since we're were always required to go round the back and use the 'helps' entrance when peddling our strawberries.

"Open up." I call out after precious seconds go by without an answer. What are they, deaf?

Movement in my peripheral vision alerts me to a swish of blonde hair disappearing behind a curtain. I thump my fist on the window just enough to make it rattle in the pane and go back to pummelling the door. Not really the time to be picky about your house guests.

"Yeah, I saw you. _Open your goddamn_-" .

The door is wrenched open so suddenly that my fist comes down and misses her shoulder by inches. I'm met with wide green eyes, rimmed red and liquefied with half formed tears. "_You._" Whatsername-Undersee the Mayors daughter says in surprise. "What are you doing here? Don't you have a family you should be off dying with?"

"Maybe later." I reach out to take her wrist, small with soft skin almost luminescent in its paleness. I bet she bruises like an over-ripe peach. I've got her well over the threshold before she starts to fight me.

Why is it that the quiet ones are always the most trouble? Take Mellark for instance. First time I heard the guy open his mouth, he ruins my life.

"What are you doing!? Lemme go!" She screeches right in my ear, since it's not like I needed those eardrums anyway, and she's impressively loud over the droning that signals our immanent and fiery death.

"_Unhand me_," she demands all venom, still trying unsuccessfully to pry my fingers off her arm, "Right now! How _dare_ you. _Who do you think you are_?"

Does she not hear the planes? The fucking firebombs? She's must have seen the Hob go up surely?

Catching her other hand as it comes up in a weak attempt to slap me, I use it to pull her in so our faces are inches from one another, my impatient breath whipping up her perfect golden fringe as I snarl, "I'm the guy who's saving your ungrateful little life. So shut your god-damn noise maker and _don't _make me regret this."

At which point she spits in my face.

Nice.

As she hocks one back and lobs it right in my eyes I come to the conclusion that if, by some miracle the bombs don't kill us, I'm going to strangle her.

"_Go back to your family_" she orders in a voice like acid, with eyes to match." And leave me to mine. Maybe you'll even get there with enough time to see them die."

Like hell. If I came all the way down here, there's no way I'm going back empty handed, even if I have to knock her out and carry her there myself.

I'm not the type of guy who'll hit a girl.

But this, _this_ is pushing it.

"Princess?" Heh. _Princess_. Sounds about right. And then the Mayor, tall, pale, balding and clad in a deep red expensive looking dressing gown is standing in the doorway. "What is the-?"

Great. With her saliva still sliding down her face I wheel Madge around so I've still got her in my grip with her back facing me. Wouldn't put it past her to, you know, spit at me again. Or worse.

"I've come to-" I begin to explain to the Mayor since it probably looks like I'm trying to have it on with his daughter, right in his front yard. I have to almost yell in order to be heard over the droning, and _we really don't have time for this. _

Lucky for me the Mayor is pretty sharp for an old guy and seems to be in-step with the plan, _unlike his daughter_. "Take her." He pleads unabashedly.. "If you've got a way out, _God please, take her_."

And I'm startled for a second. Old stone face _begging_. My father and a few of his card pals had called him that in their cups and even then with low voices. Of the few public penitence spectacles that had been issued by the Mayor in my memory, Old Stone face was present at each one and never so much as blinked or flinched. I still remember his face as impassive as concrete as they hauld me into the square, pronounced me guilty of a crime under Panem law, passed my sentence and that sadist piece of shit peacekeeper had drawn his whip.

This is the man begging me to save his daughter.

I give him a curt nod and tighten my grip on her.

"What!" She screeches, writhing in my hold as I drag her away. The Mayor makes no move to stop me yet nor to follow us. "No, Papa! _No_. Please, come, you can make it. PLEASE!" The last word is a rough scream that tears at her vocal chords. The Mayor shakes his head and mouths something that is unintelligible over the humming.

I get to hear Madge's reply though, as it's screamed, right in my ear. Again.

"I DON'T WANT TO BE ALONE!"

Quickly however she realises that her protests are falling on deaf ears, and turns her attention back to me by somehow managing to twist her little wrist out of my hand and, with a wordless snarl- _Son, of a bitch!_ -she rakes her nails down my face.

That _actually_ hurt- a lot. Another hot liquid mingles with her saliva on my face as fresh pain erupts above my eye. She drew blood, that fucking-

"You bastard!" She screeches, squirming even as the whole world seems to vibrate with the noise of our impending death. "Put me down, put me down, put me-"

Fuck it.

_I'm not dying for you._ I think as an image of my little Posy pops into my mind. I drop the _Princess_ bodily to the ground. She staggers slightly and then, without a backward glance at me starts running for her house. Which is when the whistling begins, low at first and then higher and louder.

What the-?

Madge, who skids to an almost stop, understands what it means one second before I do.

She screams for her father.

And then her house explodes.

...  
(Madge)

Fire.

All I see, all I know, all I feel, is fire.

Heat.

_Dark._

Pain.

_Darker._

I turn away at just the last second and pure agony opens up in my back.

_Darkness._

...  
(Gale)

The sky lights up with glittering heat and I'm aware of my body being hurled back and slamming into something hard and unforgiving. There's pain, oh shit, is there pain and for a few agonising moments I can't breathe, can't see, can't move.

_Breathe Hawthorne, breathe._

Sucking air into my lungs is one of the most painful things I've ever experienced, having my back ripped to shreds included. I'm wheezing, trying to get rid of the tightness in my chest and I'll probably be coughing up ash for the rest of my natural born life. Which, if I'm honest, might not be that long anyway.

But I can't die. Not here anyway. I told Posy I'd be back. _Promised_ her. You don't break promises to four year olds. Screws with their entire perception of the world.

_Get up,_ I tell myself, gritting teeth, _get up, get the hell up._ I stagger into something faintly resembling upright, and the world has picked a really great time to start spinning. Immediately my hand goes to my ribs. Definitely cracked, Broken probably. I grit my teeth against the pain.

The Mayors house, and all of those surrounding it have been incinerated.

I begin picking my way through the rubble, everything seems to be on fire, I hear bombs drop in other parts of the district and every step is pure agony.

_Move Hawthorne, move._

And then I see her, well, step on her. The fucking Mayors Daughter, _luckiest god-damn girl in the world_, covered in ash and rubble. The blast must have thrown her and I see her nightgown has melted into her shoulder and back, twisted and fused into the charred skin. She's not moving. She's probably dead.

But if she isn't...

_God dammit._

Picking her up brings a fresh wave of pain, and it doesn't help either that, having been well fed and pampered for her entire life, she's not exactly light. More like a dead weight.

No pun intended.

The best way to carry her is slung over my shoulder, like I would a deer carcass or a dog. My Ribs protest violent but I ignore them. Fire roars around us and distantly I hear screams. _No, don't stop._ Blinking stinging embers out of my eyes I stagger across the decimated square. The bakery is gone, the butcher non-existent, the florist a crater in the pavement. _Keep going._ Bodies litter the ground. Out of the corner of my eyes I see a pillar of flame, it's moving. Waving its arms. Screaming. _No, Don't look._ Nausea bubbles up. I push it down. Away. Stumbling through the threshold to the Seam now and the entire place blazes. I feel heat licking me, everywhere. Arms, my back, legs, everywhere.

On the line of the fence there are bodies, some charred and blackened. Some still recognisable. People I know_, people I knew,_ neighbours, colleagues, friends. The meadow is clear of corpses though which means they managed to cut through the fence, it means they _survived_.

All around me fire dots blaze at odd intervals, honeysuckle bushes burn.

I push Madge through the gnarled twisted hole that has been cut out of the fence. She drops to the ground, boneless, like a sack of damp tesserae grain, and then I ease myself through. And in addition to my many other injuries I can now add deep stinging wire scratches to the list.

Great.

Picking up Madge, I get the first scrap of good news since this clusterfuck of horror began.

She groans in pain.

Good. Then this whole thing hasn't been a gigantic _waste of time. _She's still in no shape to walk, but it's a start. I pick her up this time like I would Posy. One hand under her knee hoisting her other around my waist, her head lolls on my shoulder, some of her hair gets in my mouth and I feel her fingers curl into my shirt. Her heartbeat pulsing, or is that mine? Ragged breath on my neck, tickling the skin behind my ear.

This is good. More signs of life are good.

I stagger though the undergrowth, barely able to see through increasingly blurry vision and the pain. They've got to be around here. Rory and Prim are the only others that I know to have definitely been out here, Ma too, Mrs E maybe. But there are others, the other poachers, people from the hob who can hold their own out here... if they survived.

_Everything feels heavy_. And then I see it; fire. Only not in the tree's, or on live burning, _screaming_, corpses, but on the ground.

Dark shadows around it. _Moving _dark shadows. People.

_Yes!_ some inner voice exults. I tell it to shut the hell up because thinking and walking at the same time is getting increasingly harder to do.

_Just a little bit further Hawthorne, _I tell myself. _Just a little bit.. _

And then my foot catches on something and I trip. Madge goes down with me but I manage to weakly push myself over so I'm not crushing her. Dimly somewhere I feel mildly confused, because I never trip. But already darkness is closing in.

The the last thing my gaze finds is tendrils of golden hair.

...

(Madge)

The last thing I hear before the searing agony hits me is someone slurring the words;

"Don't you... don't you dare die on me."

…

A/N 28/09/2013: Some minor details changed. More little things added. Chapter has been cleaned up a lil.

Peace.

- Is.


	2. These Times, they are a Changing

**Animus  
**

Prologue; _Part Deux_

**The Times, They Are a-Changin'**

**...**

_(Three Years Later)_

(Gale)

"Docking in 5." Comes the grainy voice of the pilot over the intercom. We're flying low over the woods around 13, well I'm assume we are since I'm sure as hell not going to look out the window. If man were meant to fly, he'd be given wings. And then shot, for being nuts. Because who wants to spent their last seconds on earth plunging to their grisly death?

The bat shit insane, that's who.

"Looking a bit green there, Cpt." Corporal Gill-soon to be _private _if he keeps flapping his gums- Mathews observes with a cheeky grin under his breath, but just loud enough for us all to hear.

"Yeah, well," I reply tersely, gripping my seat until my knuckles turn white and _why the hell aren't we there yet?_ "I'd pick green over ugly any day of the week Corporal." I favour him with a tight grin. "Not quite as permanent."

Gills smirk drops from his face to his ass so fast it probably ripped open his intestines on the way down, the expression that replaces it is haunted.

"Yeah, _permanent._ Cpt. You don't need to tell me about that."

The way he looks up at me, it could be his brother. His twin. Corporal William Johnathan Jinks. Bill and Gill, we had called them. His brother died on the field at Four. Afraid and alone with hoverplanes exploding like stars above us and the screams of civilians in his ears as they entered the water, trying to escape the horror only to realise...

"He was a good soldier, Gill." I tell the kid, because that's what they are, Kids. Fresh peach fuzz on their cheeks, full of dreams of glory and revenge. Reminds me of myself a few years back when this nightmare was just begining. Spent so many years trying to be a man, like a fucking fool I jumped at the chance to give the Capitol a taste of what they'd be dishing out to me and mine my whole life.

My hand dips into my inner pocket, feeling over the cool metal of the flask kept there, I pull it out and bring it to my lips. Just one pull, its take the edge off..

I commanded the assault. It was my plan. They – the capitol forces – had launched a bid to retake eleven. It was poorly planned, a massacre, they were fleeing with their tails between their legs within days. It was my idea to take the bulk of our remaining forces swing around with the element of surprise to bring four into the fold, it was already in open rebellion and the Capitol was stretched too thin to have a force capable of preventing us from taking it.

It should have worked. Would have worked. If only they didn't somehow know we were coming.

If only they hadn't...

Burned it. Fire from the sky and acid in the water for all those poor souls who thought they could swim to safety. If our own Mockingjay fighters hadn't shown up to battle the jabber planes would have destoryed us all. And I tell you something, we've got some ace pilots thats for sure, the only reason we're all still breathing infact. And I wonder, briefly, not for the first time if _she_ was out there. Wouldn't surprise me. She's that fucking crazy. I'd even made some half-hearted inquiries after the fighting but to no avail. The seperate branches of the military are totally separate unless special circumstances require it. Even with my rank and position I couldn't source information on specific air force personnel even if I pulled in all the favours. Besides if she was out there she's more than likely dead. I saw more planes go down that night than I care to recall.

_If she died..._

I grip the cool metal in my hand until it aches.

My plan. My fault.

Control will have my ass.

Catnip too.

Another thing to look forward to.

Bristol, a seat over, catches my hand on the flask before it reaches my mouth. I know what he's thinking. He's my right hand man and far more useful than the actual appendage. Barely a few years older than me we had been friends back in upper school and when I was assigned to his crew in the mines, the same crew my father had ran years before him we decided it was fate. I wouldn't have anyone else cover my back when shit goes down.

Excluding Catnip of course.

"Not your fault Hawthorne." He tells me gruffly. _And he honestly believes it._

I scowl and take his hint by re stashing the liquor. My misgiving snort is all I have to offer on the subject as my voice then gets lodged in my throat when the hover carrier makes a sharp dip to the left and drops fast enough for me to feel it in my gut. I clamp my teeth down over the powered eggs and squirrel that threatens to make a reappearance.

No good for a platoon so see their C.O splatter the windows with every meal he has ingested in the past week.

They'd never let me live it down.

Bristol shoots me a shit eating grin.

"Would you like a bucket?"

...

_(Same Day)_

(Madge)

I'm huddled against the bathroom tiles, filthy with my own vomit and blood when the lights flicker on. I squeal and clamp my palms to my eyes because _it hurts._ Every cell in my body trembles. My nose runs violently, and my leg involuntarily twitches. But at least, _at least_ the hallucinations have stopped.

That was the worst part. Take it from me, there's nothing fun about thinking millipedes are crawling up the veins in your arms.

Or reliving memories of fire, bombs and stubborn idiots. The thought turns my memory to Four. God. I'd been boosting so hard that night. _So hard._ I made ace in one night. I record. I barely even remember all the planes I shot down. The multitudes I single handedly killed.

_A Monster in Lace and ribbons_, that voice whispers, the shadow on my soul. I shudder away from the Cheshire grin it sports in my minds eye and reject it once again as something not apart of me. I am not that person and it is not me. I _will not_ be it.

Distracting me from my own corkscrew mind is the drawling creak of the door as it opens. Someone approaches and wraps a blanket around my shoulders. The physical world seeps into my awareness and to add to the merriment I realise I'm pretty much naked. Loose shreds of cloth hang off various parts of my body. Vaguely I remember tearing at my clothes, I was overheated I think. I don't know. Everything is sort of fuzzy at the moment.

I want to cry bitterly but there's little to no moisture left in my body. I put up little resistance as Sphinx silently picks me up bridal style, his big hands holding me like I'm nothing more than a rag doll. Blearily and through glassy eyes I comprehend the mushy pinkish thing in front of me to be a face. The face of Baron, my Squad Commander.

"Emmie?" A female voice says from out of my view. Not my name. Familiar. Not me. One side. One facet. I move my palms from pressing against my eyes to my ears. To block out the noise or my disjointed thoughts I can't tell anymore. They shake me and I can literally feel my brain smash against the walls of my skull.

"They say you're better." Barons gruff voice radiates off the particles in my skin. "Come on, Love. It's over. "

_No. Go away. _I shake my head and struggle weakly in Sphinx iron grip. Why can't they just leave me?

"_Freelancer Undersee_." The same voice, though different, deeper and harder, barks at me and my head snaps up.

Undersee. _Freelancer _Undersee. I take a shuddering breath as everything comes back, sharp and painful; where I am, why I'm here.

Oh God it was.. only weeks ago. The memory leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. 4. I had tried so hard, _so hard.._. Some cruel God I think, takes satisfaction in letting me dance so close to death, so sweetly close that I can even taste the end and then yanks my strings back to his miserable stage.

"_Does this amuse you!_?" I scream out hysterically. The white roof above me spins and I loose it to my jumbling thoughts for a second.

_I killed him._

_Dallas._

Four._ He betrayed you, _the logical, unforgiving hard center of my soul refutes._ He traded classified information about the attack on four. He used you to do that. _

Hundreds died. Thousands maybe. I don't know. It was a lot of money. He had wanted to go something, justified what he did by saying he loved me. Expected me to be fine with it. How different was it afterall, to all the other scams we had pulled. All the other people we had screwed of out small fortunes. He honestly couldn't understand why it was different. He did it so we could retire. We had enough money. A fortune. Enough to set us up pretty for life.

Once I'd... After he died. I'd tried to end it. At Four. I was boosting out of my mind, had so much morphling in my system I should have been a coma patient. I don't think there has ever been a more suicidal pilot.

But that was weeks ago now. And still I couldn't take it. I couldn't take what had been caused because of me and what it meant to the few people in this world who knew me as just simply Madge the Mayors Daughter and not the jumble of lies, ploys, cons and false identities I have become since. If they knew...if _Katniss_ knew the choices I have made, the things I have done, she'd never speak to me again and I'd be getting off lightly.

I tried to end it. Thought it would be the best option for all involved.

Morphling as sweet and as painless as mother.

But obviously I'd failed to do even that. _Again._

...

(Katniss)

Nervousness clenches my stomach, and I can't seem to sit still. We're waiting in hanger 6b, the thick stench of jet fuel and the tang of metal rises up around us, reminding me that it has been days since I've been out in fresh air.

When Gale is settled in. Maybe we could get clearance to go out for a couple of hours. Take his mind of the bad news.. And four... They've briefed me on what happened. Gale... It's not his fault of course, but he'll be blaming himself. He always does.

I make a note to book that hunting session. Assuming of course, that he hasn't killed me.

Peeta lays a hand on my bouncing knee. "Calm down," He murmurs to me, his lips close to my ear and making my hair stand on end. He keeps his voice purposely low since Hazelle, Mother and the kids are only a few seats down from us. "It's going to be fine. We're going to find him in the few days. "

My fried nerves calm somewhat at his touch, and he is right. I'm doing nothing constructive by worrying everyone.

"I know," I reply, and the unconvinced look my fiancee shoots me is not appreciated. "No really. I do. I just-" I hesitate and my voice becomes unsteady, "-I should have kept a closer eye on him. Gale would have- _did do_ the same for me."

Peeta wraps his hand, steady, warm and callous with burn marks around my twitchy fingers which were in the process of tapping some undefinable beat out on my knee. He gives them a reassuring squeeze."It's not your fault Katniss and beating yourself up about it isn't going to get him back here any sooner. "

I sigh. "I know."

Above us is the hum of an incoming hover-craft.

Despite Peeta's assurances, I grit my teeth and prepare for the worst.

…

(Gale)

Darkness closes in on the cabin as we descend into 13Below, the heart of the rebel forces. Despite the fact that I have not slept a proper nights sleep in days, have bruises _on my bruises_ and a nice neat little bullet hole in my arm which pains me something terrible, I'm nearly twitching in anticipation to see my family and for a moment the guilt is pushed out of my mind.

It feels like years since I last held Posy or kissed Ma, ruffled Vicks hair and ribbed Rory about Prim and how tall he's getting these days.

And Katniss - I picture the last time I saw her, just before the fighting in 11. In the dark I see the sharp smirk she sent me as we took out a squad of hummingbirds; the non manned mechanically powered flying machine guns that the capitol often sends out scouting into hostile territory. Nasty bastards. They can take out a whole platoon if they catch you unawares. Lucky thing about them is they're loud as hell, so unless you're in a squad of deaf men that's pretty unlikely.

Basically they're little more than target practice, we were perched up in a couple of trees. Her bow against my rifle. Like old times. Almost...fun. My reminiscing works it way to her face when a bullet clipped me in the shoulder - again. I've had worse – _a lot_ worse, but you'd swear I was on my deathbed the way she went on about it. Hovered around, held my hand as one of the Medics stitched it up. A situation that I may or may not have milked for more than it was worth.

I'm not the type of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Involuntarily I then see the way she looked when her gimpy fiancee showed up to cart her back to the rabbit hole, safe and sound. The way she ran into his arms, kissed him, the smoopy dopey-ass look on his face – The darkness masks my fingers from Bristol as they slide back into my pocket around the cool metal. In the dark, I take a quick swig. I don't winch at the burn.

There's a deep internal grinding sound as the plane docks, and then flickering as the fluorescent artificial light of 13 filters into the cabin . I ignore the look I get from Bristol whose gaze just catches my hand slipping out of my jacket. I don't drink on duty, and what I do on my own time has sweet F.A to do with him. Besides, I don't rip into him about his smoking. Hypocrite.

My head snaps up with relief when I hear the hydrologic hiss as the doors to this metal death trap unlock.

"Finally," I snarl, my fingers scrabbling for the buckles on my restraints, barrelling over to the door I hit the unlock button repeatedly. And with a bit more force than strictly necessary. "Get me_ the hell_ out of here."

Bristol chuckles and then, turning to the rest of the guys claps his hands in a crisp manner. "Well, you heard our fearless leader gents, pack it up and lets scoot. I'm sure you've all some little sweet thing you'd all rather be off with. Or in the case of our Captain here, his mother."

I flip him the ol one finger salute as I continue to beat frantically at the door to the sound of my squad – _what's left of it_ – snickering. It warms me a little, to hear that they are still capable of something as human as laughter after all the inhumanity that they have witness over the last few weeks. Even if it is at my expense.

"We all know how Mrs H gets when her baby boy comes home. And we all know how much we admire that motherly love." Most of the boys are familiar with Ma, she knows most of them by name and always bring us down a nice pot of steaming stew or savoury mince when they're on the nightshift, doing routine patrol around the woods of 13. They love her. Some of the older ones a little bit more than they should. The way you hear Bristol talk about her stew...

"Keep your filthy thoughts of my Ma to yourself." I holler behind me as the doors open and I only just resist the temptation to plant a kiss on the greasy tarmac of the hanger. Even the claustrophobic lower levels of 13 below trumps flying.

My relief is doubled then when I hear someone shriek my name and then Posy barrels into me. I pick her up and twirl her, laughing. And shit, she's getting heavy these days. Seven, nearly eight. The age Rory was when dad died.

"You came back okay." She laughs, wrapping her arms around my neck and planting one right on my cheek. "I knew you would."

"I promised didn't I?" I reply, nudging her cheek with my nose. "You _always_ do." She giggles and then flinches away with a wrinkled nose and the observation of "Your face is all scratchy."

"That's because someone hasn't shaved in a while." Ma adds, and I bend down to kiss her, noting the dark circles under her eyes, like she hasn't been sleeping. They are relieved but narrowed in a way she can't help when she's pissed. I know that look. I glance questioningly at her, wondering what the hell it is I did this time but she says nothing.

Vick stands next to her, trying not to look too excited. He's starting that all arms and legs stage that Rory was in the last time I saw him.

"Hey little man," I say and ruffle his hair. Only he's not so little any more. He comes up to my shoulders and already taller than Ma.

"Aw, shit Gale." He whines batting my hand away, he pats his hair down and sneaks a glance at Primrose who is making her way over with her mother. Prim gets more gorgeous every time I see her, and I'm putting serious thought into investing in a club and just setting up outside her door to ward off all the grease bags who will try to to smarm it up to her in the very near future. Next to her Mrs E looks about as happy as Mrs E can get. I grin, and then muss Vicks hair up again to which he grumbles some relatively creative cuss words under his breath. I cuff him lightly upside the head for it, he grins at me.

No namby-pamby huggey bull for us Hawthorne men. No, we show our affection with physical abuse.

After getting my respective hugs and kisses from Mrs E and Prim, I look around for the two people missing. My gaze easily finds Catnip. Mellark stands a few paces behind her, leaning on his cane - a constant reminder of what he gave up for her – she's dressed in the green motley pants of a soldiers field uniform, sturdy boots and a plain if slightly too big shirt that definitely wasn't made for women. Something of Mellarks I'm sure. Practical clothes. After her experiences in the capitol, Catnip dresses up for no one. Not the high-ups from Control. Not even me.

Guiltily, I can't help but wonder what she would look like wearing one of _my_ shirts.

A scowl on her face. Pissed at me too probably. Just the way I like her. I'd refused clearance for her to come to 4 during the aftermath of the battle. She blames herself for every thing _they_ do. Every bomb. Every death. Every televised torture. She didn't need to see it. Not like that.

I grin and extracting myself from Posy I make my way over to her. But my pre rehearsed PG rated brief of the battle dies on my lips when I see the expression she's wearing isn't anger, but worry. Her eyebrows drawn down with the crease between her eyes. She walks over slowly, cautiously, like I'm prey she's trying hard not to startle.

Something is wrong. My grin slips off my face. Because there's still someone else missing.

"Hey Gale," She says, trying at first to hide whatever is making her anxious, the facade doesn't last long. Katniss and I have always been straight with each other.

"Catnip," I say, every muscle in my body taught, bracing myself for the news.

"It's Rory," She tells me, looking everywhere but into my face, and I feel Ma's hand on my shoulder.

"He's... gone missing."

….

(Same day)

(Madge)

"Are you sure, _sure_ you want to do this Emmie?" Myff asks me, putting both perfectly manicured hands on my thin arms. "If you're not ready, just say. The commodore said-"

"_I know what Baron said_," I snarl shrugging her hands off me. She steps back and eyes me wearily, ready in case I lash out. What quells me is the hurt which flickers in her violet eyes for a brief instant. My anger quickly melts, replaced by guilt. I feel like a bitch. "Sorry, I just-" I shake my head to clear it.

"Withdrawls." She finishes for me, and I shrug, hopefully not letting on about the fierce pounding in my skull. "I know honey." She says looking at me pityingly, "Which is why I don't think-"

"Come on Myffie," I wheedle. "I can't lay around here like an invalid any longer or I'll go stir crazy, and besides I can't remember the last time I checked in on business. I heard that Dorian is passing through and you know we need to get rid of that last batch for a decent price. Besides," I fix her with my secret weapon; the pouty Bambi eyes. Never fails. I continue. "When was the last time us girls, hit the town in the light of day and sober? I can barely remember. _Pretty please. _With sprinkles and a cherry on top. "

"Aw shit, and there you go, with the eyes and the face." She gripes, using her hand to block me from her sight, her corkscrew fuchsia curls bob as she shakes her head in exasperation. "Damn Emmie, you're lucky I'm a sucker for blondes."

I laugh and pull my flight jacket on over frail shoulders. "Don't I know it." Fishing out the keys I feel the familiar shot of adrenaline at the thought of getting behind the wheel again, only to have them snatched – quite rudely may I add – out of my hand.

"One condition." Myff interjects smugly, twirling the ring around her finger. "I drive."

Now that, is just cruel.

I pout and try the bambi eyes again – she plants her palm in my face and pushes me away.

Uncalled for.

"You know," I point out as we cross the hanger to the buggie, which is, aside from the hover bikes the only land vehicle our squad has been given by HQ. "As your superior officer I could just order you to give them back to me."

"But you being as weak as a spring chicken, I could just beat you, drag your lifeless-yet finely shaped- ass back to bed and forget this whole thing." She replies coolly, swinging herself over and through the roof of the hover car.

Touche'

Needless to say I don't press the issue.

…

(Gale)

"What do you mean, _missing_?" I growl, just as my stomach clenches. Missing? How the hell did the kid manage to get out of 13 is what I'd like to know. Most secure place in Panem my ass.

Wordlessly Katniss digs into her pocket and produces a small scrap of paper.

_Ma_

_I'm going to join the fighting. I can't sit here. I need to do__ something._

_Please don't be angry._

_Love, Rory._

_PS; Tell Gale not to pitch a shit fit._

A wordsmith he is not. I re-read the letter several times, and then crumple the piece of paper in my fist as I'm flooded with the surge of anger, worry and dread all in one hit. Just like that time the little rat took out Tessarae behind my back.

When I get my hands on the kid, I'm going to fucking _murder_ him

And then a terrifying thought occurs to me; Because someone else might beat me too it.

...

(Madge)

Pulling into town, being out in the open air and sun for what feels like the first time in weeks is exhilarating. There's people everywhere, a mass of refugees from either 4 or 10 or even immigrants from the capitol. Their poor, their criminals or both. Mockingjay colors sprinkle throughout. The dark blue of the navy, grey of the air corps and green camo infantry mingle together in the streets.

Our base camp, District 3a is set up in the skeletal remains of what must have been a city for our ancestors, positioned almost exactly on the border between districts 11 and 4, the ocean is about thirty minutes flight to the south-west and within flying distance of the Capitol.

Presuming you can make it through the gauntlet of anti-air missiles stationed from here to 10 and through 2, the seething hive of Jabberyjay air forces.

Which, for the record, I have.

Needless to say, with main front having shifted to 10 following the masacre at 4. This fair little quasi-district has become a key strategic point for all rebel forces; land, air and sea. Which since outside gossipy old women, soldiers are the cattiest bunch of people you'll ever meet and fight over pretty much anything, probably isn't such a good thing.

It should also merritt mentioning that 3a is a cesspool of depravity and corruption. Any regulation outside army discipline is non-existent, and with just as much civilian as military population our fair base sprouts as lively if not slightly more family-friendly an underground scene any of the other "free" districts.

Brothels on most corners, rampant gambling, backstreet drug deals, taverns, clubs. Rapes, theft, murder, old grannies left to cross the street all on their own. It's not so much a sister to the drainpipe of abject desperation and odious human depravity that now is 11 but a very close paternal cousin. The rebels at this point barely have the capacity to free the districts much less police them. Crime is rampant and one can make a pretty little profit in these times of desperation if they have the talent for it.

Which I mostly certainly do.

We turn the buggy down what passes vaguely for one of the main streets. Hover cars, bikes and an assortment of other military gear are parked at odd intervals down the road. The muddy side walks are mostly filled with soldiers off duty and in the mood for a bit of R and R, whether it be with alcohol, relatively fair priced company or other none too savoy recreational activities.

Just as we pass the stream of patrons to Bennies Emporium. A glorified, writhing neon toilet and one of the settlements thriving nightclubs, I feel Myff nudge me and point to the line outside the recruitment office in the square. No one who has been into real combat and has an ounce of compassion for his fellow man likes passing the recruitment office

"They're getting a good batch of C.F this week." She observes, laughing in this awful humourless way and shaking her purple head.

C.F. Slang for _Cannon Fodder_. The term used by most of us for the refugee recruits these days. They give them barely two weeks of basic before they're shipped out to the front. Compared to the gruely six month mandatory basic they forced me to do shortly after I enlisted. And despite the fact that technically the age restriction for enlistment is 18, unofficial policy is to let them in as long as they reach the height requirement.

Suddenly, coming out here doesn't seem like such a good idea.

"I swear they get younger everyday." Myff then says watching the line as we're slowed to a stop in the traffic.

I eye the office wearily and don't reply. Watching the batch of kids, most probably having run off from bad places or destroyed homes, fresh faced with no idea of what they are getting into. And then my eyes land on one kid, an almost exact replica of one of the few people in this world that I really, truly despise. He's dangerously close to the front and once you sign on the dotted line, the army own you.

My foot reaches over to slam down on the breaks, and with Myff shrieking obscenities in my ear and the pulse of horns from all the other traffic behind us, I stagger from the car and nearly get run over about four times before I've crossed the road.

I get to him just in time.

But I'm ashamed to admit that briefly I considered not stopping at all.

….

A/N: 28/10/2013 – Another Cleanup. More details added to aid in a slight change of story line. Although most of it is the same as the previous edition the new details are very much worth the read.

Thanks for the Continuing support all who have read/will read this. Much much undeserved love I have received which I thrust all back at you. Heh, Thrust.

- Is.


	3. They Call Me Suave

**Animus**

Chapter One

**They Call Me Suave**

_(When I'm drunk they call me…)_

…

_(Nine Months Later)_

(Gale)

The first thing I'm aware of is that there is some sadist bastard inside my skull trying to _kick it open._ The second thing is skin, warm skin covering the weight on my chest, a head of dark hair sleeping on my arm.

What the..?

Oh.. _right. _

Squinting into the gloom I try to remember her name. G. something that started with G. I think. I squint into the half gloom of what passes for early morning here is 13, the artificial lights are automatically dimmed until 6am, any earlier than that and the place is bathed in this subterranean greenish-grey.

Creepy.

Gloria? No. Geraldine, Genna, Giselle. Really hoping it's not Glen, carefully I lift the sheets up and, no, definitely not a Glen. I really need to start writing this type of shit down somewhere. Get them to sign my arm before we leave the bar or something.

Stifling the need to take a hammer to my brain I slide my arm out from under my…guest. She shifts in her sleep, the sheets bunching around her waist, leaving all the other interesting things from that point upwards bare. Smooth tan skin, dark hair thrown messily over her face, lovely set of- Right.. getting distracted. I spy the lump of darkness on my floor, pants. Good. Pants are good. Shoving one leg through and then the other, I then bring my wrist up and smell the cuff of my shirt.

Smells like a bar. Like every bar I've ever been into, like every bar in the entire world probably. Like smoke, stale beer, sweat, bad perfume and.. faintly of piss.

Nice.

Chucking a quick glance at whatserface (Gabrielle? Maybe) to make sure she's still fast asleep I change my shirt, throwing on something relatively recently laundered. One of the pros to having a Ma who was a washerwoman, I've never been stuck for clean laundry.

Picking my way through the room and into the lounge I'm stuffing my keycard into my pocket when I hear her shift in the next room. On a whim I reach out and grab my passcard to the shooting range, I'll wait it out there for the day, go see Ma later maybe. Get briefed by Control this afternoon, see if there's any more news on the situation in 7 and then home. She should be gone by then. Most of them get the hint.

And the ones that don't…. well, I don't keep anything of much value in the place anyway. The thought then occurs to me that, apart from my field gear, I don't really own that much of value. I'm pretty used to it. Don't have to worry so much about your crap if its all… well, crap.

I don't have to try to be silent as I get myself ready to leave, years of providing for my family and taking down game in the woods have seen to that. My hand is just hovering over the handle when the knocking comes. _Loud _knocking. I wince. Firstly because my skull pounds in time to the fist belonging to whoever the unlucky bastard standing behind it is, the one whose face I'm going to break in a few seconds, and secondly because it's woken up the mystery girl. Damn.

Just as I pull the door open I hear her groggily say a name. Not mine. So now I don't feel too guilty about forgetting hers. And to add to this series of unfortunate events I seem to have been born into, upon opening my door, I'm now staring into the bright blue eyes of Peeta the-frosting-prince Mellark.

He grins good naturedly at me.

"Fuck off." I growl immediately. Really not in the mood. At the best of times Mellark isn't my favourite guy in the world so imagine now, being royally hungover with an impending argument lying in my bed… _kill him with my bare hands_, doesn't even begin cover it.

"Morning to you too." He replies, that dopeyass grin on his mug not slipping an inch. "Had a late night did we?" He inquires as though we do this everyday, taking a step forward into my door way.

What the hell..?

"Have a death wish do you?" I return, forcibly slamming my door into his foot as hard as I can , eagerly awaiting the sound of breaking bones which doesn't come. He doesn't wince, at all. _Fucking fake foot,_ I internally seethe.

He then uses his cane, crowbar like, to pry open my door. In order to help in this task I casually lean my full weight on it. You'd think the guy would be able to take the hint.

"Is there a particular reason for you coming here, or is this just a social call?" I ask through the slowly widening slit in the door.

He rolls his eyes, and then grunts in his effort to get inside.

"Give me a moment and I'll whip out the tea and scones." I sneer, yet nevertheless step away from the door and allow him to fall in. Stubborn gimpy bastard. I spy my jacket, thrown haphazardly over the couch, and bend down to fish my flask out before taking a swig.

"Little early isn't it?" Mellark says, leaning on his cane, and eyeing me with that look I hate. Pity.

"To be talking to you," I grunt, saluting him sardonically with the flask, "Why yes, yes it is. Which brings us back to the original question, of _what the hell do you want_?"

Mellark fixes me with a look. Which is how I know he didn't just call down here for tea and a catch up. It's the '_grow up and shut up_' look. The one that tells me he knows we're never going to be friends, and that the only reason he'll put up with my shit is because of Katniss. Because she's crazy and stubborn enough to want us both in her life, and Mellark is too whipped and I'm too stupid to know better.

"It's about Rory" He says, and my gut drops as I try to search his face for some indicator of what kind of news I'm about to receive. Mellark keeps his expression impassive though, since he's one hell of a liar and I can't read him. Not like Katniss, on whom I see see a lie form from about fifteen paces away.

"They've found him."

I stare. Waiting for more. Waiting for him to tell me my kid brother is dead. Because why else wouldn't Katniss come tell me herself?

"They've found him _alive _Gale." Mellark reiterates then probably from seeing the look on my face. He smiles, genuinely pleased at the news. I let out a long breath I didn't know I had been holding.

"Alive." I murmur on the exhale, hating myself for how shaky my voice comes out. _Weak_, in front of Peeta Mellark. Great. But it's been nine months. Nine fucking months I've been half convinced the kid was dead, lying somewhere in a ditch, or captured and tortured if he was recognised as my brother, as Katniss Everdeens baby '_cousin_'. Every time Snow sends us a broadcast of the execution "games"I've been waiting, half expecting to see…

"Where?" I croak, taking another swig just to keep myself in check, and then; "Where _the hell _has the little rat been hiding out for the past three quarters of a year?" Because when I find him, _he'll damn well wish the capitol has him._

Ma will be relieved though. Maybe she'll start sleeping now.

"The settlement on the edge of three, according to Haymitch," Mellark informs me crisply, "The one that has taken most of the refugee's since four was destroyed." I nod. I've heard about the place. A makeshift district, there's quite a few of them around now. Cropping up on the edge of various major battle fields. I've lived in a few of them myself from time to time, after all, people have got to live somewhere. Even when a war's on. _Especially_ when a war's on.

"Right, " I say, reaching over to grab my jacket, and holster. "Does Catnip-?"

"_Katniss" _He stresses, his voice factionally tighter, " has already cleared the flight with Control," Katniss is the one thing we don't talk about, ever. "They're preping the hovercraft now. We're scheduled to leave," he checks his watch and frowns, "about five minutes ago."

_We?_ Of course, couldn't leave his precious fiancée with me alone. Where's the trust?

"What are _we_ waiting for then." I half-sneer, fastening my holster around me and chucking my jacket on. I pat myself down… I'm missing something… oh, right. My knife. Don't ever leave home without it.

"You actually." Mellark points out, and then coughs into his hand, "You might want to attended to your, ah… _friend_ before we leave though." A head jerk in the direction of my open bedroom door.

Oh. Right.

I pop my head around the door, she's in the process of throwing on her clothes. "Hey baby." She purrs when she sees me. A tenner says she doesn't even remember last night. Or my name.

"Who are you again?" I ask bluntly, because it's on the tip of my tongue, really.

"Mary." She hisses, bypassing seductive and going straight to pissed. Mary? Damn. I could have sworn it was G-something.

"Well, Mary," I say brusquely, reaching over to grab my hunting knife, I keep it in the sheath I have nailed to the side of my dresser, easily reachable from the bed. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

There, done.

She's lucky I was even here to tell her that.

Of course, she probably doesn't see it like that since she blinks and then her eyes narrow in anger, but I've already left the room and am standing with Mellark before she starts screaming profanities at me.

"Nice." He comments against her screeching and the sound of my one and only vase shattering into pieces against my wall as we step out my door and into the pristine white hallways of district 13. "Really debonair of you." His lips twitch, and if he smiles at me I'm not responsible for what happens or in what condition Catnip next sees his corpse- _Body_, I meant body.

"Yeah that's me," I reply sourly as we hit the elevator that'll take us up to the hangers. "A real prince charming."

…

(Madge)

"Do, you, _mind._" I splutter to Sphinx as he exhales twin clouds of noxious green smoke from out of his nostrils – into my face - moving the thick capitol made cigar around in his mouth he shrugs and proceeds to blow his death cloud in Trap, my mechanic's direction.

And for the record that's not exactly what I meant.

Though it should be noted that the kid barely even registers it. Being brought up inhaling coal dust by the bucket-load for your entire life does that to you I suppose. Besides,being the walking booze sponge that he is, the kid is too busy eyeing off the last of Hawkeye's pint.

"Hey Hawk," Trap ventures when he's sure the bomber pilot is inebriated enough to consider giving him a drink despite the fact that _I am sitting right here,_ keeping my eye on Myff whilst simultaneously trying not to get vomited on. You have to be vigilant all the time in places like these, or the next thing you know you'll wake up in a bath full of ice in some back alley without your kidneys.

Tapping my foot on the ground and then removing it when I feel it stick into something squishy I sigh. I hate bars. But Rodgers is the only decent place open in the afternoons. The nightlife around here doesn't start rearing it's lecherous head untill about nine and it doesn't open it's eyes untill at least midnight.

"Eh?" Hawk looks up blearily at Traps question, his good eye swivels in my direction as I expertly pretend to be fully absorbed in whatever it is that Myff is doing. He's considering it, I don't even have to look to see that Trap is giving him the bambi eyes. The kid does it almost as good as I do. _Almost._

"Fuck it, be my guest kid," Hawk slurs quietly and with a surprising amount of eloquence after four rounds. I, my hand at the ready and wait for the light grinding, the sound of the glass being slid down the table top, before I spoil all the fun.

"Don't even _think_ about it." I say, still keeping my eyes on Myff's bobbing blue curls at the other end of the booths table while sliding the cup back down to it's original owner. It hits Hawks arm and sloshes over the table, I see he's already fallen asleep, drooling and It's only 4:30.

Lovely.

"Come on, just this once." Trap wheedles, squirming in his seat. I sigh and ignore him. He pokes me, repeatedly. Annoying. Why do I even keep him around? Oh yeah, I'd hear about it for years if I let the kid die, plus, he's not too bad. Little rough around the edges maybe.

"Just one little beer." He continues to whine in my ear, "I swear, that's all. Barely nothing really. Besides I'm old enough anyway." He puffs out his chest a little, as though this proves his point. "Come on Madge, _please_."

Madge; Trap is one of the few people who calls me that any more. Haymitch and Griffin are the other two. We all have nicknames, Sphinx, Hawkeye, Trap, Myff, all of us… It's a pilot thing - probably. But then, maybe it's because our names suck. I mean, _Margaret_. Really. Last time I checked, I wasn't fifty and senile.

I meet Sphinx's eyes over the table, his large brown hands emerge from out of his noxious cloud and flicker in rapid movement, signing the phrase, '_Don't look at me. You wanted to keep him. Your pet, your problem_.'

"Your sympathy is appreciated." I murmur, and then fish out a few coins.

"Alright," I warn the eager young idiot, a rather too self-assured for my liking grin spreads across his face. He's lucky he has a pretty smile or I'd almost be tempted to wipe it off his mug. "Just one – a _light_ beer." I warn, like the responsible insert-mental-snort-here adult I am. "I swear, the last thing I need is you vomiting all over my seats again."

Besides, he's not nearly as bad as I was when I was his age.

"Aw shit, Madge," Tapp groans, rolling his eyes. "That was one time. One time! And you never let me live it down."

"Yes," I reply, "because I spent the entire day cleaning the vomit out of the cockpit of _my plane_. While, might I add, _someone_ was lying on the couch in a panic because he thought he was _dying_."

Opposite us Sphinx snickers silently at the memory. Trap glares and opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. Because, frankly, I'm so not in the mood for his crap, and just being in this place is trying enough.

"I _mean _it this time," I say pulling out my best serious authoritative voice, and dropping the coins into his out stretched hand. Back out comes that self-assuring grin, diluted a little to be sure.

"Only one drink. And that _does not_ mean one as big as you want." I add when I see his eyes brighten in thought, "So no yard glasses. And no cocktails, or anything you have seen Myff drink." I pause on this thought for a moment. "In fact make it anything that you even suspect Myff would drink, which includes any drink that has those annoying little umbrella things in it. And _absolutely_ nothing that smokes. Understood?"

"You take the fun out of everything."

"There's nothing fun about being hungover and puking up an internal organ." I retort, and then move so he can slide out of the booth. "And try not to incite any riots while your at it. The last time-" Trap has this annoying habit of being a little bit mouthy for a scrawny 17 year old punk in a bar full of rowdy, shiv-you-just-for-fun soldier types.

"Yes Ma'am." He replies, cutting me off with a mocking salute and the s_arcasm is unappreciated there buddy_. Where is the respect these days? Really.

I watch as a few questionable looking 'ladies' eye him up as he goes to the bar. They are, it should be noted, old enough to be his mother. He's completely oblivious of course. But I swear, one of these days that kid is going to put me in an early grave and a featus inside some poor unfortunate. I'm of the firm opinion that this earth is in no need of more People – for lack of better term – from his gene pool. Trap's okay, but you should meet his mother.

I resume letting my gaze wander, catching Charlotte and her girls doing the rounds, observing as a few of them, in their gaudy hardly modestly cut dresses are followed upstairs by their patrons. Men and Women alike. Most of them still in uniform, technically against regulations but eh. My gaze is yanked back to Sphinx when his foot presses down on mine and his hands ask me, '_Having fun yet?_'

Sphinx loves coming to this dive about as much as I do. The club scene is more my thing to be entirely honest more neon lights and colours. But Sphinx, well, he just hates any large-scale gathering of people.

He's a real winner at parties like that.

"Are you?" I shoot back. He grimaces. '_Like having my tongue removed._' And then soundlessly chuckles at his own joke. I wrinkle my nose at the poor taste of analogy.

Trap returns a few moments later pushing me down the booth until he's seated again. "Thank goodness for little miracles" I tease once he's settled, "back from the bar in one piece." And then I lean over to fondly ruffle his hair. His attempt to hide his grin under a thunderous scowl is short lived.

He's a good boy really.

Which is when Myff comes bouncing back to our table, she takes one look at Hawk, passed out in a pool of his own saliva and mutters, "Lightweight." before pushing his sleeping form off his seat and unceremoniously dumping him onto the floor - needless to say, Myff is not really known for her nurturing compassion – before perching herself on the now free spot at the table.

We all perk up immediately to hear her news.

"Alright" She says and her eyes, cerulean coloured this month, sparkle in the foggy light, "Tidus says he'll race and Epson is town for the day and keen too." We all nod. Figures. Epson hates me just a _mite_ less than he hates Tidus. Which is a lot.

"How much is the bet?" I ask. It'll be hefty, especially if Tidus is in. The guy never races for anything less than double his paycheck.

"Three hundi," she says and we all whistle low, "from _each _racer."

So 600 to the winner. Three months pay for me. More for the others. Not too shabby for a twenty minute 300m/ph race around the settlement boundaries.

"But that's exactly how much we've got. Between the five-" Trapp looks at Hawk, unconscious on the floor "-well four of us." He's not quite at home with gambling – wasting money or well, _anything_ isn't really the way he's been brought up. The kid wears his socks until they're just shreds of thread on his toes. And don't even get my started on the fuss he kicks up if I want to go out an get him some new clothes. He'd walk about stark ass naked if I let him.

"And if we had Four Hundred the bet would probably be four hundred. Plus Tidus through in extra for the possible pleasure of painting the road with your finely shaped ass." Myff says to me waving a hand dismissively, flickering a mischievous look and a wink. I narrow my eyes in disapproval.

"Come on Emmie." Seeing my indecision Myff appeals to me, "Back in the day, you and Dal would've-"

"_Not any more._" I warn cutting her off before she really hits a nerve. The slight hint of a smirk around her mouth indicates that's probably what she was going for. She misses the the old days more than the rest of us, It's the capitol in her, all flash and pizazz with no thought to consequences, such as the fact that if we lived like we used to we'd probably all be dead. I know I definitely would be.

Nowadays I've got certain promises to keep and Trap to set an example for, I throw a look at the kid to see him throwing me a curious look in return, he raises an eyebrow in a eerily familiar way and I return it with my best poker face. Which, if I do say so myself, is pretty damn near impenetrable.

'_Worth it, to double the money_' Sphinx signs a moment later to diffuse the tension.

"Tidus and his squad will never leave it alone if we loose." Trap puts in ever the voice of caution. "Plus," he also adds, "Griffin will _kill us _if he finds out."

Also true.

"Which is why, my naive little apprentice," Myff says leaning in to flick in him in the nose, "_We don't tell him_." Trap sneezes and wrinkles his nose, shaking his head like a wet dog, "It's called lying sweetie. Make a note of it, for when you get married to that pretty blonde thing whose picture you keep under your pillow." She gives him a sly side long glance, "You know, the one with stains all over it."

Trap shoots her a rather unpleasant two fingered gesture, but a deep blush creeps up his neck.

"When you two are quite finished," I say taking the heat off the poor kid since I happen to know that what he feels for that particular blonde is completely pure, despite what Myff is trying to insinuate.

Besides, _I_ think it's very sweet.

They all turn to me then, since I'm their CO here _and_ I will actually be the one racing _and_ if we're caught by HQ or worse _Griffin_, my butt will be the one on the line. Our dear old Commodore, actually would probably wet her splottlessly clean, sharply ironed uniform since she'll actually have a valid excuse to discharge me this time. I stare in thought at the various and surprisingly creative profanities carved into the table.

Pro; Assuming I win, we get to lord it over Tidus and his squad for the rest of their natural born lives. Oh… and we double our money.

Con; If I loose, Tidus is going to be well… _more_ of a conceited jerkoff than he already is, plus we loose the money, _plus_ if we're caught, I'd be facing probation at best, if not demotion… and there's the ever so slight chance that I total my hover bike and die a horrible, screaming, flaming death.

And My Bike is very important to me.

Still… If I win… But the risk… I don't really need anymore heat, I'm only not probation by pure luck.

"Dal would've jumped at in a heart beat." Myff mutters under her breath.

I shoot her a dark look. But…She's right. He would've been up for it in a second and probably bet with money none of us had, I can almost picture his smirk, the god-damn Maverick.

"Tell them I'm in." I decide possibly foolheartedly, trying to play it cool but am unsuccessful in fighting down a smile as Myff and I share a look full of old days camaraderie,"See you haven't lost none your touch either." Before clapping me on the back and bustling off to make the arrangements.

Despite his apparent opposition to the bet Trap hollars loud enough to tick off the people in the next booth and punches the air. Which results in him sloshing his drink down his front. Nice. Boy of high class is he. Sphinx inclines his head, which in Sphinx-speak is as good as a card, a cake and a pre-wrapped present with a large pink bow on the top. He then goes back to smoking.

Below us, on the (possibly termite infested) floor, Hawk grunts in his sleep and murmurs something about his mother.

….

(Katniss)

Gale hisses a string of curses under his breath as the hovercraft banks to the right and begins it's descent. I see clouds illuminated by the afternoon sun pass by the window. Peeta sits to my left, his restraints unbuckled completely, a box of pencils balanced precariously on his knee as his gaze, intense and focussed darts from his window to his sketch book.

Opposite us Gale's window is firmly closed and he grips his buckled restraints hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. "I doubt we're going to go hurling to our deaths any-time soon Gale," I tell him, stretching and unfolding my numb legs out from under me.

Gale grunts something unintelligible, a swear word probably. He's not a fan of flying. To tell you the truth, I wasn't either – at first. But travelling around to the districts as much as I do, you learn to suck it up. There are worse things. Walking all the way here for instance.

Besides, we should be there soon.

Peeta looks up at my attempt to initiate a rather one sided conversation. And then at Gale, who's turning this impressive green colour and resolutely not looking out the window. Peeta's mouth tugs up at the corners and I shoot him a warning look. Gale isn't his number one fan on the ground, I'm sure those sentiments have multiplied now being a couple of tousand feet in the air. Peeta dips his hand into the pocket on his shirt and withdraws a pack of two small blue pills, throwing them into Gale's lap and says, "Here. These should help."

"With what?" Gale says through gritted teeth, staring down at them.

"Motion sickness." Peeta grins into his tin of pencils, selecting a brown one.

"Eat shit, Cheesy buns." Gale seethes, because the animosity is just that subtle. He doesn't touch the pills, though I'm positive he'd very much like to. Peeta shrugs and then goes back to his sketching, seemingly unfazed by this behaviour. But then, I suppose he is used to it.

"_Gale._" I say in warning, just in case the pleasantries escalate.

Gale makes no attempt to look apologetic when he says, "Sorry Catnip." He turns to Peeta, "I meant eat shit, _please,_" Peeta scratches the top of his head with his middle finger. Oh, nice.

I roll my eyes. "Was that necessary?"

"Actually yeah," Gale replies with a crooked smirk, "I feel much better now."

I swallow the reply on my lips and I let my eyes drift to my own window, I'm on the side of the settlement. It's a sprawling mass of buildings, some tall, others long, some small, all criss-crossed with wonky looking streets. It has a spontaneous haphazardly look, like it's been planned out by some insane architect. A fence surrounds the boundary, and the two large buildings on the north and south side are the only things not encompassed by it.

Great. Fenced in

I feel more at home already.

And it's then that I spot them. Three quickly moving figures skirting the outside of the fence at high speeds, a thick plume of dust is whipped up behind them, eventually mingling into this giant brown cloud. It takes me a moment to realise that they're people, driving some sort of vehicle. Hover-bicycles I think. A brain child of Beetee's.

"Catnip?" Gale says, peering at me, so I guess my interest must be showing in my face.

"They're racing, I think." I say, pointing out the window. He takes a deep breath through his nose and then leans forward to look out. Behind me, I hear Peeta put down his things and join us at the window.

"Yeah," Gale says, "I've heard about these. There's rumoured to even be some championship for it, an illegal tournament, I heard they call it. The Revel." He scratches his chin, switching his gaze from my face to the window. "Banned to shit though, get caught participating and auto-discharge."

"You're kidding?" I say, wondering how it is I haven't been informed of this. "Must have missed that in my reports.

Gale shrugs. "They don't want it to get out, Control thinks it may be Capitol funded." Huh. Still. Catching another thing Control had 'neglected' to inform me about does not sit well.

My eyes narrow. "Snow. Figures he'd need some sort of replacement entertainment."

"Guess he's winning," Peeta says diverting the conversation somewhat, by pointing to one of the three that has broken away from the other two and is in the lead.

"He." Gale scoffs, squinting out the window, "That, Cheesy buns, is a _she_."

Peeta presses his face closer, his nosed squished against the glass. "Really?"

"How can you even see close enough to know?" I ask. Gale's sight is good, I would know, but it's not that good.

"Trust me Catnip." He replies calmly, settling back in his chair. "That is definitely a woman."

I purse my lips and don't press the point, since currently I'd bet Gale knows more about the female anatomy than I do.

"Oh look," Peeta then says, pointing out at the figure as he/she swerves to a stop just before a cluster of what looks like people and kicks up a cloud of dust in the process. "She won."

…

A/n: Argh. I was going to add _so_ much more to this chapter, like it's not even half done. Now I'm going to have to put it in the next one and, grr... Oh well, suffice to say, Madge totally kicks someone's ass.

And Trap; _I wonder who that could be_, o_O

Lawl to Gale being a jerk face to random skank woman, if it makes you feel any better, in my mind she has a few kids and a wonderful husband whom she sleeps around on or something. :) And tan skin, black hair... I think he's got a fetish... just sayin'

I loved writing the Gale/Peeta Banter. I dunno, it was just fun. And yeah, Madge's friends are pretty cool themselves. I'd like to say that Madge is not quite a sheltered little rich girl anymore, she's been off doing her own thing for a few years now, and is pretty badass. I'm still hoping to get in her... prissiness I guess... I dunno. Anyways, thoughts?

_Funny, lame, boring, entertaining, kill it with fire?_ Let me know. ^_^

And yeah, I know I've been updating like a fiend, but I really want to get the start of this story down and then I swear, expect a long long S&p update, with much exciting things.

_Title lyrics © hilltop hoods._

Is.


	4. Me and my associates

**Animus**

Chapter Two

Lets Give a Hand to Me

_(and my Associates)_

...

(Madge)

"Two ninety seven, eight, nine aaaannnnd the magic three hundred." Myff purrs as Epson counts out his portion of our winnings into her hand. Her blue, chipped, grease smudged nails twitch as she clutches the bundle of notes. Next to herself, money is possibly her favourite thing in the world.

"Do come again," She smirks in that way that makes people want to rip her perfect hair out by the roots, "Any time you feel like loosing your dosh."

She throws her money free arm around me so that when he pounces on her she can use my body as a shield.

I love my friends.

However this time Epson manages to curb his temper and simply snarls at me, showing us his surgically sharpened canines before turning on heel and pushing his way through the throng of people that surround us. Dimly through the yelling, cheering and general noise, I hear other people collecting their own bets from the bookies. Figures. You could race two grimy rats down the street and get a handful of sad individuals willing to bet on the winner.

I spy the rest of my squad around in the crowd. Hawkeye, now conscious, stands next to Sphinx and is trying to chat up to two busty ladies. Operative word there being; _Trying. _Trap leans his elbow on my shoulder, not because I'm short, he's just freakishly tall. (Well that's my story and I'm sticking to it). He's grinning like a loon and nudging me every so often while yelling in my ear '_You won Madge! You won!'_

Because like I didn't know that already. The fact that I'm 600 dollars richer and have dust in every crevice on my body is sort of the give-away.

And I can't wait to get back to the hanger for a bath, steaming hot, with bubbles (_bubbles,_ sigh) and my body wash, because really, I think I've earned it. And just on a side note, do you know how flipping hard it is to get strawberry scented body wash? Really hard. Like searched three districts and even then I got lucky, hard. But it's going to be heaven, to peel off all this leather, throw my helmet in the corner and just soak the dust out.. Bliss...

_Ow!_

Interrupting this daydream is Myff's really flipping pointy elbow as it digs into my ribs. "Look what the rat dragged in." She hisses in my ear, and I see the crowd part, forcibly pushed to the side by Squad 7 as they stroll through looking for all the world like they own the place. All of them with sharp creases in their freshly laundered uniforms, their regalia polished and gleaming gold.

Even their boots shine.

I huff, which does nothing but fog up the perspex in my helmet, because they make my squad look like a bunch of hobos. Which, admittedly may or may not be close to the truth in Hawks case. But still.

To top it all off, Tidus stands in front of them with his perfectly sculpted hair slicked back from his stupid face. He is handsome, I guess, if you're into the whole Adonis thing. Which, oddly, I'm not. At all. And not many girls are after the first date either.

The guy is a creeper of the worst calibre.

Heck of a pilot though, even I'll admit it and it doesn't help either that he's basically perfect in every way unless you're counting personality and.. well there's a reason his plane is a good three times the size of mine. A _vast _overcompensation for his- a baby carrot is the closest visual reference I can give and no, I'm really not joking.

Tidus reaches out to yank Trap out of the way so that we're face to face. Well, face to chest, since that is where I come to on him. Luckily Trap is pretty even tempered (which is surprising really, all things considered) and just brushes it off. Loyal to a fault, there's really only one thing that really gets the kid riled. Well, two things actually.

I glare though, because _no one_ messes with my little (-ish) mechanic, and then I realise he can't see me, since I've got my helmet still on. Heh. Woops.

"You got lucky this time." Tidus tells me, slapping the notes down into Myffs outstretched hand - hard. She winces. What a gentleman.

"Actually," I reply casually, watching as she quickly counts it, and then nods in satisfaction. "I'd prefer to think of it as skill. Or your _lack_ thereof."

Tidius smirks and then leans forward, dislike gleaming in his blue eyes. I fight down the urge to take several – _thousand _- steps back. And suddenly his hands are darting out to grab the front of my jacket and pulling me forward, I'm nearly lifted off the ground completely. "Tough words there Maggie Baby." He drawls sardonically, his face inches from mine and my skin physically _crawls_ having him this close. He drops his voice to a whisper, so that only I can hear.

"Especially coming from a-" And then I watch his lips form the word. The word that I hate. The one word I won't tolerate. _From anyone_. "- junkie bitch like yourself."

The reason I'm silent at this point, is not because I'm cowed - because let's face it, as thick as Tidus's skull is, my helmet happens to be thicker- but because it's taking all my willpower not to do something stupid with that information.

I suck a sharp breath through my nose._ In, Out. Breathe. In. Out. Calm. Think tranquil thoughts. Butterfly's, yes, butterfly's are good. Dolphins, Puppies, cute little fluffy bunnies..._

Tidus' lips twist into a deformed smirk. "No so tough now are we, Baby?" Baby? Yes, because that's not patronising _at all._

Will power; who needs it anyway?

"Oh," I reply softly, tilting my head just at the right angle, "I wouldn't say that."

And then the top of my helmet slams into the bridge of his perfectly sculpted nose – hard. I'd like to just say, contrary to this situation, I'm really not a violent person. Honest. Possibly this is because I'd get the crap beaten out of me if I tried to be, but whatever. Blood spatters and spider web cracks form in my vision from the shatter proof visor in my helmet and I hear a rather satisfying crunching sound. The sort of sound a nose makes, when it is smashed into someone's skull.

Ha. Take that.

He reels back, his hand clutching at his bloody nose, dropping me bodily to the ground in the process. And then there is one of those moments where no one knows quite what to do– until Tidus roars, revealing the thinly veiled nut-case underneath his calm exterior and raises his fist at me.

Oh dear.

This, I'm guessing, is probably going to hurt.

...

(Katniss)

The flight goes off without a hitch. And we land safely within the confines of the settlement. Our Hover plane lands on a smooth green artificial looking lawn and there are several people waiting as we disembark. A pale pasty woman is the first to greet me, her face is remarkably line free but she has the air of someone around my mothers age. She shakes my hand first, a firm handshake. She's obviously someone of importance – or thinks she is - from the way she holds herself. Her uniform is grey, the colour of the rebellions air-force, but I don't recognise the insignia or the rank pinned to her front.

"Miss Everdeen." She says, her voice low, husky and intelligent. "We're honoured to have you to our humble settlement." I smile politely and nod, but my mind is on finding Rory, since this is pretty standard. I'm sure it's some pre-rehersed speech that they send around to everyone. Nevertheless I try searching my memory for her name, but honestly, I was too eager to get here to memorise it, besides Plutarch knows I never read the briefing notes he gives me.

Peeta comes to my rescue in this department, as he often does, by striding forward and taking her hand. "Commodore Azura Salmavitch." He greets her, smiling warmly. Commodore? Sounds important.

"Mr Mellark," She returns, shooting him a genuine smile. "A pleasure."

"Likewise," Peeta replies, and then gestures around to the lawn and to the large three story house to the left. "From what we've seen, you're settlement looks remarkably well."

Behind me I hear Gale make an inelegant noise in the back of his throat. I want to elbow him but, tactfully, he's standing out of reach. The Commodore looks up at the sound, her lips pursed in annoyance. Her eyes take in his uniform, clean, ironed but one that has definitely seen much use. Probably seeing the expert way he holds himself, the outline of his pistol fastened to his hip, the hilt of his knife tucked into his boot. His rifle is on the plane, packed securely in with my bow. Nowadays Gale spends more time in the field then he does at 13, he's gone from woods savvy hunter to a hardened soldier.

Or, in other words, someone you don't want to mess with. Someone to be respected.

"Captain." She says apparently making her decision to tolerate him by inclining her head. She doesn't shake his hand.

"Commodore." He replies, nodding. And that's it. The talking, apparently, being left up to Peeta and Me. And by that I mean Peeta.

I catch his eye as we and the rest of the greeting party are lead back towards the house, we both make the same face and then grin.

...

(Madge)

I crinkle my eyes shut and flinch back, expecting a blow but none come. Around me the crowd roars and I open my eyes to see Trap and Tidus sprawled in the dust on the ground.

"_Rory_!" I scream his actual name out impulsively, and on reflex I see him look up at me, well he does, before Tidus's clocks him in the face.

A gasp escapes me.

That kid is going to be the death of me... or rather, I might now be the death of him. Since it's really not an even fight, though they about the same height, Trap is positively scrawny in comparison. Still, even with the damage to his face, he manages to get in a few solid blows into Tidus's stomach.

Despite his otherwise easy-going demeanour the kid is a scrappy little fighter, no surprise really. Considering who his family is. And the fact that he's been hanging around Hawk for the past nine or so months.

Around us there is movement, Tidius's squad moving to help him out. Myff sticks her foot out to trip one, waiting for the girl to stumble before yanking her to the ground by her hair.

Ouch.

Opposite us, Hawk brings both his elbows up into the stomachs of the two trying to move past him, he turns and then neatly slams their heads together and I see Sphinx is calmly putting out his cigar on the forehead of the third.

What my squad lacks in dress sense and in general respect for authority (mine mostly, you don't much want to mess with Griffin.) they absolutely make up for in the ability to totally kick ass.

I lurch forward and throw myself onto Tidius's back, yanking at his hair.

Admittedly, probably not my best thought out idea.

...

(Katniss)

I smile and nod politely as I'm introduced to the numerous officials and high ranking military men here. Gale shadows me most of the time but says nothing, mostly because he can't stand these type of people. The one's who make the decisions but do none of the action. Peeta is conversing deeply with the Commodore and a man in wheel chair a few paces away.

The punch is good though.

Behind me I hear Gale murmur, "Catnip, if I don't get out of here..."

I'm close to feeling the way myself.

"Alright," I whisper back, "I'll give it ten minutes, if nothing happens," I jerk my head to the window, "There's a hover car outside, I'm willing if you are."

I'll find Rory if I have to search every inch of this place.

I don't even have to turn to see his smirk.

And then my attention is diverted when Peeta makes his way to my side, running the pad of his thumb briefly over the sensitive skin on the inside of my elbow. My thoughts shift immediately to the last time we were alone, three nights ago. Prim and Mother had both been working late in one of the medical wings and we had the place to ourselves. I can almost feel the brush of his lips on my collar bone, his breath warm against the sensitive skin on my neck and his fingers fumbling to get my buttons undone...

"Katniss," Peeta's voice breaks through these memories, "This is Wing Commander Starling." He gestures with his cane to a grisly looking man seated before me in a wheelchair. A deep scar, worse even than then one over Gale's eye, mars the left side of his face. Stretching from the bridge of his nose to his neck. Underneath thick salt and pepper eyebrows are two clear green eyes, which gaze at me intently.

I match him stare for stare.

"Call me Griffin," He corrects in a scratchy growl after a long moment, "That goes for you too lad" He adds, nodding to Gale. And I can just picture his face at being called 'lad'.

Griffin holds out a hand, clad in a black glove for me to shake, which I do. It's hard and unyielding, not compressible like skin.

A prosthetic, like Peeta's leg.

"_Katniss Everdeen_," He says, drawing out the syllables in my name. Savouring them.. "It's a damn honour." He grins and pulls me in closer by my hand, so that our noses are inches from touching. "Not everyday you meet the girl who spat in Snows eye,_ twice_ and lived to tell about it."

I stare into his eyes, wondering silently whether he is mocking me or not and reply, "I guess I got lucky."

He chuckles and releases me. "I'm a firm believer in making our own luck," He grins jovially at me and I feel as though I've passed some sort of test. "I hear you're interested in finding my apprentice mechanic."

...

(Madge)

I've got one hand wrapped tightly in Tidus's hair with my other around his face, his elbow slamming into my side when I feel someone pull me back by my jacket.

I screech and writhe until I realise it's Sphinx. At which point he drops me bodily to the ground.. yes, Ouch. I look around to see Myff sitting on the back of some poor unconscious woman, examining her nails nonchalantly. She looks up at me and smirks. There's not a scratch on her.

Hawk picks me up and sets me on my feet with a feral grin, his good eye practically sparkling because there's nothing Hawk loves more than a good decent brawl. "Up you get there, Lt." He says, dusting me off.

I watch as Sphinx leans down and yanks Tidus off Trap, holding the jerkbag up with one hand around his throat, the guy in question makes gurgling sounds and blood steadily trickles down his face. Everyone else is silent.

So the squad may or may not have a bit of a reputation for this kind of thing. So what? They're all good people... mostly.

I feel a little guilty though, since technically I did hit Tidus first. However this ceases when I get a look at Trap. Who sits up, his eye blackening quickly and his lip split. "You okay?" I ask, going over and bending down next to him. His eye looks painful. Nothing broken though.

He grins, "Yeah." And then he looks up at me concern etched into his features. "He didn't hit you did he?"

"Not with you around, lunatic. " I reply ruffling his hair, but I have to resist the urge to shake his shoulders at the dopey, puppy dog '_I did good_?' way he is looking at me, "Don't _ever _do that again."

"But he was going to-"

" I _mean_ it Rory." I reply, forcibly. "I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, looked like it," He mutters under his breath, spitting up a bit of saliva and blood. "I don't even know what you're worrying about." He then adds, all bravado, "I totally kicked his ass."

_Not really._

I refrain from mentioning this, since he did just save my face from being broken.

With that I stand up and walk back around to Tidus and Sphinx. One of Titus's hand is struggling with the fist around his throat, this does nothing, and Sphinx looks on impassively. He could probably collapse the guys larynx with a twitch of his pinky finger. He's a bit scary like that.

"You-" I point to Tidus, who better be prepared to feel my wrath (for it is mighty) "-give me one good reason why I shouldn't let Sphinx-" At which point my communicator vibrates. Why? _Why_ does this always happen at times like these. "-hold that thought for just one second."

I reach down, flip the thing open and put it to my ear. "Hello," I chime, "This is-"

_'I trust you lot are all back at the hanger, where I told you to stay' _Griffins voice growls down the receiver. I wince. Ah.

"Hypothetically speaking," I wonder aloud, chewing on a strand of hair that has escaped from the ribbon I used to tie it back "What would happen if I were to say we weren't, as such, actually there."

Silence and then, '_Your collective asses would be hypothetically nailed to a post, is what would happen.'_

Lovely.

"Good thing we have not left then. Just as you instructed, Commander," I reply stoutly, saluting him in my mind, though I'm now chewing my lip. Because crap. Crapity, crap, crap

" But say," I continue, still playing it cool, and he totally has no idea. "If one were curious, how long would we have to get back before said asses would be nailed to aforementioned hypothetical posts?"

'_I'd say, about fifteen hypothetical minutes.' _He barks down the phone, '_ The place better be clean.'_

If by clean you mean a stinking wasteland of old poker chips, bottles and a half-assembled 340A jet engine, then yes, it's spotless.

_' And best behaviour, all of you.' _He continues, '_We've got guests'_

"Who?" I inquire, but he's already hung up. Rude. Snapping my communicator shut I swallow down the magnificent speech I was going to ad lib about the virtues of not hitting women and respect. Which would have changed lives. Instead, my hand swiftly darts into Tidus inside jacket pocket to draw out his wallet. I take a fifty, before dropping it at his feet.

"Compensation," I explain, pocketing the note. "Since your face broke my helmet."

Seems reasonable to me.

As I turn away I motion for Sphinx to let him down then, which he does, with more force than strictly necessary.

...

(Katniss)

I watch as a few meters from me Griffin speaks lowly into a communicator, I'm not close enough to hear the words but there is mingling of slightly amused irritation in his facial expression.

"Everything fine Commander?" The Commodore asks idly when he wheels himself back over to us. We're out side now, being loaded into the hover car Gale and I were contemplating stealing not ten minutes ago.

"Not at all, Azura." Griffin assures her with a wide grin, "But might I add, that you look a real sight today, the light just shines off you something fierce." He winks at me at this point, and I have come to the conclusion that I like this man. "Does my heart good to see our dear Commodore looking so bonny and bright, like the shining moon on a-"

"That bad is it?" The Commodore asks bluntly, completely straight faced.

"Possibly," He replies with an airy wave of his hand, gesturing to our vehicle, "Might we mosey on back home and find out then."

"About time," Gale grunts, not bothering to lower his voice as he climbs into his seat. Peeta holds the door for me and I climb in after him.

…

(Madge)

Barrelling into the hanger, we literally have ten minutes to clean up nine months worth of slobbery. So, assuming we even get it done, it's going to be a shoddy job at best.

Myff stands on the balcony with three boxes of old beer bottles and drops them into the bushes below with a mighty crash. Sphinx lifts up the threadbare couches in the common room (one with each hand) as Trap shoves all the miscellaneous debris under them. Hawk is haphazardly putting all the tools away and pushing anything that looks even remotely greasy and mechanical behind _The Jay_, an A360 air-carrier about the size of a small house.

And me? Well I'm busy having an internal freak out session because I can't remember where I put my lieutenants insignia or any of my other regalia . Sadly, this isn't the first time this has happened, but they just make them really flipping tiny. Anyone could loose them. And I also have the worst hat hair imaginable.

Crap.

"Has anyone seen my-" I call out, as I try to simultaneously pull on my boots, button my jacket and tie my hair back into something vaguely resembling neatness.

Although, I did hear somewhere that the windswept dusty look is totally in this season.

"Lost something?" Myff calls down from above and I look up just in time for my lieutenants badge to hit me square in the face.

And yes, that kind of hurt. And now I'm going to have the words Flt Lt Undersee permanently embossed into my forehead. Lovely. This day just keeps on getting better and better.

"You're a life saver," I call out, holding the thing in my mouth as I put the last touches to my hair, a simple bun tied with a blue ribbon. "But, perhaps, for next time. Refrain from _throwing it at my head_."

"Aye, Aye, Lieutenant!" Followed by a sarcastic salute.

I roll my eyes, just as I hear the familiar light hum of a hover car.

...

(Katniss)

The hanger is a large tin shed, with an offshoot of brick buildings to the side. Pulling around the front, I can see a multitude of hover planes and vehicles parked inside.

"It's not much," Griffin says with comical false modesty when we have all been unloaded, "But it's home."

"Temporarily," The Commodore corrects, and then adds "Squadron 9 is scheduled to be reassigned to full active duty in 7 in the coming weeks."

Something knots inside me. District Seven, where the heavy fighting is at the moment. If Rory is with these people, we may have just got here in time. And by the way Gale stiffens next to me, I know he is thinking the same thing.

"But that looks like.." Peeta says and then stops himself, it takes me a moment to realise his mind is not on the conversation. I watch him carefully, ready to calm him if this triggers anything. But his hands aren't shaking, and his eyes are steady. He is staring at one of the planes in the hanger. I'm not an expert at identifying them, but to me it looks like fighter plane. Smaller than the others.

As we draw closer it takes me a moment to realise what he is staring at. Most pilots paint their planes, many name them too. I guess it's a little like my bow, relying on something to keep you alive for so long and you start to form an attachment, though admittedly I'm not at the point yet where I'll start having Cinna paint flames and naked women on my arrows.

But it's no wonder that Peeta, as an artist and someone who sees beauty in everything, is drawn to this particular plane.

The entire nose of the thing and to just past the wings is painted with exceptionally life like golden feathers, I see deep black eyes as well. And a beak. In fact, that whole front of the plane looks like...

"A Mockingjay." I breathe, staring at it. Allowing my eyes to follow the pattern of feathers which thin out and eventually morph into little tendrils of flame, licking the underbelly of the craft.

"Ah," comes Griffins voice as we move closer, "I thought you might like that one. We call this beauty, _The Phoenix_."

I realise my mistake. A Phoenix, not a Mockingjay.

"Who pilots her?" Peeta asks him, still staring at the plane intently.

"The second in the command of my Unit." He replies, waving a hand at the plane "Flight Lieutenant-"

"Introductions later perhaps?" The Commodore suggests mildly.

"Right you are Commodore," Griffin nods, and then brings his good hand up to his lips and lets out a piercing whistle that makes us all wince.

"Must you?" The Commodore asks.

Griffin grins.

…

(Madge.)

"Oh great, Commodore Sourbitch is here and hey, doesn't that just look exactly like-" Myff is babbling as she peers out the window at the new arrival. I'm not doing this, because A) I have self respect and B) I'm not actually tall enough to reach the window without having something to stand on.

Which is where the self respect part comes in.

She's cut off however, when Trap (who is also looking out the window. Stupid tall people, being tall) says, "Oh, _shit_."

"Language," I warn, quickly giving myself a once over in the mirror. I smile, because I look good. Well, good considering what I looked like five minutes ago.

"No, really Madge." He says, beckoning me over with real seriousness in his voice. "You should come see this."

"Why? What's-" Shamelessly standing on the stop of an unturned bucket I take a look down to the first level. And then my gaze lands on the group of people getting out of the car. The Commodore of course, and this will be a _fun_ visit, next to her is Griffin talking with...

"Oh, _Merde._" I gasp out, favouring the French equivalent of Traps statement, when I identify the three people.

This is _really_ just not my day.

...

(Katniss)

"May I present, Flight Squadron 9," Griffin bellows, and we watch as people tramp down a set of stairs in the corner and assemble in a line before us. The first is a sultry woman with bouncy corkscrew blue curls and eyelashes that spray glitter as she blinks. When she meets my eye she slowly licks the top of her lip and winks.

Which was, obviously meant for Gale or even Peeta. Right? My eyes narrow.

After her a large, _impossibly_ large man with chocolate covered skin and little facial expression regards us stoically.

"Remind me not to get on his bad side." Gale mutters in my ear. I nod, making a mental note to do the same thing. A grisly man with a shock of red hair, an eye-patch and his forearms covered in tattoo's joins them next. These three are introduced as Head Mechanic, Officer Monisha Jinks, Flight Officer Samuel Mosley, and Pilot Knox Johnson respectively.

"Last, but by all means not least," Griffin says, "This is my Flight Lieutenant-"

And then my mouth nearly falls open in shock, because the last person to step out is possibly the only Fighter Pilot to ever have played piano and worn ribbons in her hair.

"Madge."

And standing right behind her is Rory.

...

A/n: Whoa, Long chapter is long. And I love how from the last chapter everyone was impressed with Madge's Badassery... and all she did is sit around and whine about being in a bar... But, as you can see, she's pretty tough, and... messed up.

Uh.. Peeta; very interested in her plane... I wonder why? ^_^

And, wow, okay guys... BEST NEWS EVER, _Wrong, In all the right ways_, has been mentioned in Jessica's fic picks for the Muttations pod cast. So one thousand years of good Juju to all those guys, Jessica in particular.

:) It like, made my day.

And just on that, wow, I'm loving the support this story is getting. Thanks to each and every one of you! It's amazing! Special shout outs go to; **doggiesrule147, CrazyAce'n'PokerFace, OMGMaree**. :)

And Tidus, where he picks Madge up and goes to hit her is pretty heavy duty, I understand it might make some people uncomfortable (it made me so when I was writing it) but that's to set up the kinda guy he is, since he's going to do some pretty evil things. So yeah. Uh, sorry for that. There will be similar things hinted at, but none graphically depicted – I think.

Also, he has a tiny prick. Ha-ha.

So, uh, yeah, hope this is exciting for you. And.. I feel bad that we're... what? Four chapters in and we've only had like, two paragraphs of Gale/Madge interaction. The next chapter will remedy this.. and man, they really hate each other. Lots of tension and whatnot.

So, uh, review?

Peace out

- Is

…


	5. Interlude: In The Woods

**Animus**

_Interlude;_

**When you go out in the Woods Today,**

_(be sure to go in disguise)_

…

_[Immediately following the bombing of 12]_

_(Madge)_

I'm not dead, I know this because death doesn't hurt this much.

And Oh God, _it hurts._

Someone is manipulating my limbs gently, laying me on my stomach, softly pushing hair out of my eyes, whispering comfortingly in my ear and then... stabbing white hot irons into my skin.

I scream until my throat is raw.

I writhe, which only brings new waves of agony.

I beg them to stop.

Why are they hurting me?

Dimly I'm aware of someone touching my face, hushing me, telling me I'm going to be all right.

Liars.

And then the angelic face of Primrose Everdeen swims into view, a needle in her hand.

Miraculously, through the haze of pain I'm able to discern what it is.

Mother's "medicine".

_No_, I try to get out, _no don't.. not that stuff.. don't.._

But I must not be able to get the words out because the needle disappears from my view, there is a small sting in my arm and then, for a while, everything is bliss.

…

(Gale)

I'm the makeshift medical area of the camp, biting back every curse I know as Mrs E reapplies a herbal anti-infection salve to the deep cut on my face, and re-does some of the stitches that have loosened during today's hunting.

The good thing, the _one thing_ that makes sure I'm not going to go out of my fucking mind when every time I close my eyes I see fire, smell ash and hear screaming, is hunting. The feel of leaves and undergrowth under my boots. The satisfaction of a successful kill. The fresh air, unsoiled by the stifling heavy scent of coal and human misery.

There's ash though, the sky is black with it.

The coal mines burn continually.

The chance to finally get out in the woods again is damped slightly by the fact that I have to almost single-handed feed five hundred people with two bows, three knives and a handful of snares.

It's a challenge.

I'm lucky though, since a lot of the people who survived are those who were actively involved with the Hob. Some of the other poachers survived, Bristol who is nearly as good with snares as I am.

Key word there, _nearly_.

Rory has been improving in leaps and bounds and many others have a fairly decent working knowledge of edible plants and herbs. Greasy Sae oversees most of the meal prep, and bullies anyone unlucky enough to get in her way into helping.

Mrs E is taking care of the wounded.

So maybe not _single_ handedly. But it's just like it was before, everywhere I turn there are hollow cheeks, mouths always wanting more.

But it's a system, and we're managing

For now.

"There," Mrs E says, tugging in the last bit of thread and neatly cutting it with a knife. "That should hold. It's going to leave quite the scar I'm afraid."

Figures. I bet the snotty merchant will be _thrilled._

Speaking of which, I jerk my head in the direction of the lifeless pile of blankets that her _highness_ has been passed out under for the last twenty-four hours. Posy kneels next to her humming a tune and happily weaving the flowers that she managed to wheedle me into getting, through the tendrils of yellow hair peaking out from under the blankets.

"She showing signs of life yet?"

"Not yet," Mrs E replies crisply, picking up a basket of torn disinfected scraps we're using as bandages. "I'm hoping to keep her sedated until the fever breaks."

I nod. Sounds about right. Mrs E knows her stuff.

"Good." I reply, easing myself up gingerly, since my ribs are still fucking killing me. "Well keep me posted and I'm thinking of going out and checking the snares on the other side of the river bank in a bit, so if you needed any plants in particular let me know now."

She nods and then, completely out of the blue says, "It was a good thing you did. Saving Margaret."

Yeah, not so good for my face.

I grunt non-committally.

"Not many people would have been so... so _thoughtful_ as to go back for her." I look up sharply at the tone. There's a tightness around her mouth, and an almost coldness to her words. She looks like Katniss actually, when she's royally pissed about something but trying not to show it.

"Katniss would have wanted me too." I reply gruffly, and my eyes land an open box of needles.

Luckily for, pretty much everyone here, Mrs E was able to pack in quite a few of her medical supplies in place of other necessities, like, you know, clothes and food.

"And," I add in a moment of afterthought, "it makes us even."

Which is true, I owe the Mayors Daughter nothing now.

"That's the _only_ reason is it?" Her eyes search mine. I match her stare as hot irritation flares in me at what she's hinting at.

_How can she even..?_

"You mean besides the fact that you seem to think I've been getting some on the side from, of all people, the god-damn _Mayors daughter? _" I snap, rounding on her. For one I'd like to know where she thinks I got the time, since I worked twelve fucking hours a day and when I wasn't in the mines or bartering for food with the joke of a sum which passed for my _wages_, I with her and Prim, watching the games.

Yet she neither confirms nor denies my accusation. Merely a half shoulder shrug and a chilly stare.

"I _loved _Katniss." I say, curbing back my anger and trying to keep my voice level and low so as not to be heard by the entire camp. "J_ust_ as much as he did_._"

_And more than you._

Fuming, I have to leave in order stop myself from saying those unforgivable last words.

...

_(Madge)_

I smell something sweet, perfume perhaps and feel someone tugging at my hair. Which is odd, because who could have gotten into my room? Mother would be upstairs, Father would be at work. None of the help would have come in this early... But for some reason the effort it would take to open my eyes and solve this mystery doesn't seem the bother.

They'll go away, eventually.

"Fink she's dead." Come a reedy voice somewhere in the vacinity above my elbow.

"Nu-uh." Contradicts another higher voice, clearly outraged. "Fairy Princesses don't die. Don't you know nothing?"

"She's not a princesses Po." A third voice, deeper yet warbly at the same time, joins them.

"Is too! See, gold hair. All Princesses have gold hair, stupid."

"What about Prim? She's got gold hair. She's not a fairy or a Princess."

"Prim's hair is _yel-low_ Rory." Is the counter argument and the 'stupid' is implicit at the end. "' 'Sides she's wearing a _gold_ necklace. I looked. It's got jewels on it. So there." The sound of a raspberry being blown, and then high-pitched little girl giggles.

"Yeah," argues the first voice. "But that's cos she's the-"

Why are they not going away? I groan, since trying to puzzle out this dilemma for some reason, makes my head hurt. A lot.

"Told you she wasn't dead Vick." Says one of the voices smugly.

"Quick! Tell Mrs E she's awake."

_Mrs E? _Is the puzzled thought that manages to work it's way up through the haze. And then I feel a gentle hand over my forehead, and a familiar voice saying, "Her fever's breaking. Madge? Madge. If you can hear me I need you to open your eyes."

I obey, opening them just a sliver, allowing daylight to stream in and stab me in the brain. I groan inelegantly and squint up into the blue eyed, worn face of, of all people, Katniss's mother

"Mrs Everdeen," I croak, blinking several times and struggling to sit up, but she puts a soft hand on my chest to push me gently back. "What are you doing in my-" And then I stop, because we are not in District 12, we are not at home and we are certainly not in my room.

And then it all comes back.

"Oh." I say as I remember, as flame and the flash memory of my Father begin incinerated before my eyes rise up in my mind and then, mercifully, darkness closes in again.

But not for long, as someone prods me and holds something up to my lips, cool liquid – water, and God, I hadn't realised how thirsty I am. My mouth is heavy, sticky and dry and I greedily drink as they, Mrs Everdeen presumably, holds the water to my face, like I'm an invalid.

I guess I am.

It's when she begins slowly easing me into a vaguely upright position that I realise two things, the most obvious and, quite frankly worrying, is the fact that underneath my blanket, I'm naked.

Yes. Naked, as in; without clothes on. Which, in itself isn't bad, I've always been a fan of nakedness. There's something very freeing about it. But when at some point, I've been both unconscious _and_ naked, that's when I start to get a bit concerned.

The second thing I note is that someone has put flowers in my hair. The sickly scent of them itches my nose and makes me sneeze, causing dull pain to open up in my back. A weak sound, somewhere because a hiss and a whine is renched from my mouth at the sensation.

Oh. And movement of any kind pains me – a lot.

Mrs Everdeen leaves me then, being called away to check the other wounded. Of which, I gather there is many. I barely recognise any of the people around what must be the survivors camp. Primrose I see, off in the distance, fixing up someone's bandages by the looks of it. But everyone else is more or less a stranger. Although pretty much all bare the olice skin and sharp countenance of the dog-eaters, people from the Seam.

Due to the apparently perpetual state of dabilitating agony which I am in, I have no choice over the next few hours but to silently observe what has become my new home, there is a sense of busy despondency about the place. Everyone appears to have some sort of job to do, but with weary faces, grief darkened eyes and hollow cheeks.

I'm startled out my study when a small thin face pokes itself very near mine and stares. No really, she just stares at me, eyes scrunched up in apparently concentration. A little girl, possibly no more than four or five. She better not be soiling herself or something. They tend do that, I've noticed.

"Hello," I hedge cautiously, since in my experience small children are usually insane. This seems to be an adequate response as she gives me this gap toothed urchin grin, drops a flower in my lap and then plops herself down on the grass a little way from me.

I stare at the flower. It's pretty and matches the ones in my hair. I guess that solves that particular mystery.

Ignoring the little girl I burrow further in my blanket when I realise that a lot of people are looking at me. Some favour me with just a quick glance, others openly stare with curiosity.

It makes me uneasy and I squirm under the scrutiny.

Unintentionally I meet the eye of a girl around my age, whom I vaguely recognise from school, she sits with a slightly younger boy huddled against her. There's something in her expression though, a familiar uneasiness; the sort of look I used to sometimes catch in the eyes of some Seam kids at school. I drop my gaze but not before catching the formation of the word 'Merchant' on her lips.

And it's then that I realise.

I'm the only person from Town to have made it out alive.

Which pretty much guarentee's that if the camp is so unfortunately as to be in a situation where cannabilist ideals start to become a legitmate option, I'm the first person being thrown into the pot.

Great.

...

(Gale)

I get back into camp from my third hunting trip ust before evening, dinner preparation is keeping most of the camp busy. Ma and a few of the others are down at the lake shore washing out some of the clothes, most of the younger kids surround them. Others, the injured mostly, sit against trees or near the small fires we've got going. There's people everywhere, huddled into blankets, three or four to each. We have to share since there's hardly enough to go around and the nights are getting colder.

I pass Levi and Teal, both huddled under a blanket near the fire eying the spit Bristol is turning with the dog we were able to take down earlier, blood still drips from the carcass so it'll be a while. I press a handful of leaves in their hands. "Chew these," I tell them with a nod to the dog, "While you wait."

Levi takes them with a thankful shy smile and her brother murmurs a word of thanks. Looking past them for a place to sit and skin the rabbit I see a bundle of blonde hair wrapped in a blanket sitting furthest away from the fire.

Looks like _her highness_ is finally awake.

About time.

….

I don't even hear him approach until a gruff unsympathetic voice grunts from beside me, "So, you're awake then." I flinch at the sudden sound and then wince and hiss because of the pain this causes. (_God, the pain_.)

The Slag Heap champ himself, Gale "the brows" Hawthorne kneels on the ground next to me, the limp corpse of what looks to be a rabbit in his hands, he looks almost expectant.

Waiting...

For what?

An apology?

Or gratitude.

My _Hero._

I _hate_ him. My loathing for Gale Hawthorne sits on par with my abhorrence for the Capitol; the faceless enemy, a dark ominous blot on the horizon capable of unmentionable horrors but undefined. I find it easier to hate him, sitting here, a physical manifestation, a reminded of everything I've lost.

Of everything I couldn't save and of all the things I never had that would have been worth saving.

And so when I look into those hard grey eyes, one with a deep, painful, looking scar. My handiwork I think, although my memory is fuzzy. I want to hurt him. I want, so badly for him to suffer. He, who saved his entire family and Katniss's. Who couldn't give me what I wanted; to die, surrounded by.. well at least with _a _loved one. Someone who understood me. Someone who loved me, as I really am and not just some 2D sterotype perpetuated by fear, mistrust and the instability of my fathers position in our _glorious _nation.

I search my memory for the worst, the most hurtful thing I can possibly say to this... this stupid, _ignornant _dog-eater, this _coal miner _who is no more able to fathom what his thoughtless actions have truly taken from me than a worm can understand calculus.

But because I've spent the last twenty-four hours drugged up to the eyeballs all that comes to mind is;

"Nice face." The words come out someone hoarsely.

His dark heavy eyebrows knit together, briefly I see in them confusion and then anger. Ha! I internally rejoice until the agony of my blanket slightly grazing against a tender spot on my back brings a wave of fresh agony.

"Yeah, well you're not looking so crash hot yourself at the moment either." Hawthorne shoots back in reply, and then goes back to his rabbit. Annoyingly not at all that fazed by my clear "I hate you go away now unworthy peon" stare I am pinning him with until visibly I cringe and avert my gaze as I watch him cut a line in the flesh and with precise and deft movement he rips the _whole freaking skin off the rabbit_. As easily as any normal personal might take off a jacket. Tendrils of dilute blood drip down his fingers. The corpse is pink and no longer resembles a thing that had the full potentiality of life within it just this morning.

And I think I just became a vegetarian and must be looking green around the edges, because the smirk _he_ throws in my direction is savage with satisfaction and speaks volumes about his opinion of me. Weak. A Useless Merchant.

I didn't think it was possible to hate him even more than I already do.

Guess I was wrong.

I open my mouth to hurl abuse. All the bad words I've heard over my entire life from listening at the door of the peacekeepers wing in the justice building bubble up in my mind. But as there's children near...

"_Va te faire foutre, enculé!"_

He blinks, and though clearly he doesn't know the actual translation, there's no mistaking my superior tone, which lets be honest can be easily attained when cussing someone out in a language they don't know.

His eyes dart suspiciously all over my face as though my eyes will suddenly became an Idiot to French dictionary. Good. I feel slightly better actually, because _of course_ he wouldn't speak French or have anything actually resembling a formal education of any sort. Other than you know, the finer points of mining coal of course.

Just like, of course I would never have seen the corpse of a rabbit mutilated before. I open my mouth to hurl more abuse but then an unsettling thought occurs to me: I actually _need_ this boorish peasant at the moment.

French whilst excellent nourishment for a healthy mind it isn't exactly going to feed me.

The thought that my survival (for lack of a better term) is dependant on a person who looks quite ready to take me out in the Forrest and leave me for the bears, for a moment makes me queasy and want to vomit.

Luckily however just as I am truly considering this option the little girl, the one who put flowers on me and is now playing with a makeshift doll made from sticks and other scraps looks up with a frown.

"Gale?" She whines, her little button nose scrunched up either in distaste or some other unidentifiable child expression that I am not familiar with. "Don't scare the Princess away."

Princess. Heh. I think she means me.

"Sorry Po." Hawthorne replies, pulling from somewhere a look that isn't a scowl – his default facial expression I assume, which when he turns back to me morphs into a look of scorn.

I glare.

"Didn't mean to upset you. _Princess.__" _His voice is laced with contempt as he nastily wipes the blood from his fingers onto the hem of the blanket around me. To do this he must lean in close enough that I catch the scent of him. Musky sweat, Blood and... I shudder away from him and the memories of fire, my home and my mother as much as my feeble body, mind and blanket allow.

"Presumption being that your opinions actually matter_. Dog-eater._" I snap, swallowing down these memories and flat out ignoring the dirty feeling that creeps up when I utter the word, the most insulting term for him and people like him that I know of. The kind of word you only use if you're looking for a fight with certain groups in our district. Or you're _very_ young and_ very_ ignorant about how the world works.

I tell myself that I'm not sorry and believe it.

Hawthorne stiffens and his eyes are steely as he stands and shoots me one last contemptuous glare before quite calmly leaving. I watch him walk calmly over to join the crowd around the fire, all eyeing the corpse of that poor dead animal roasting over it with undisguised excitement.

Savages.

...

A/n:

Bit of a re-write. I guess. The thing is I wanted to get across more so in this revised version is that when Gale calls Madge an uppity little bitch. HE HAS A SOMEWHAT OF A POINT.

Everyone has bad days and sometimes they say shit that they don't actually mean or believe.

Particularly as I felt that in the books Gale had far more of a poverty complex than Katniss, comments like these from someone like Madge would probably affect him a lot more than most people (Madge in particular) realise.

Also the term "Dog-eater" in terms of social taboo in district 12 would be leaning towards say calling someone the N word (although this is not a comparison, because lets face it, I'm not even going to write the actual "N Word" because I'm white and also not American.) So you know, not exactly something you just run around saying. I mean. Gale didn't even really "do" anything to her in this chapter and she's throwing around these socio-economic slurs.

So, review?

- Is.


	6. Blowout

**Animus**

_Chapter Three_

Blowout

….

(Madge)

"He's going to kill me. He's going to fucking-" Is Traps mantra as we watch the others step out.

"Language." I hiss back, "And he will not." Probably. But then, there are very few acts that I wouldn't put past Hawthorne. So for good measure I add, "Since he'll have to go through me first."

"Easy for you to say," Trap retorts, twisting his hands nervously, "He wouldn't hit a girl."

And if he tried it - despite the fact that Hawthorne is 6 feet plus of angry, highly trained brawn mixed with the winning combination of little brains - I'd totally kick his ass. Well, Sphinx would.

I'd definitely pay to watch though.

"You're smiling," The kid hisses accusingly, "Why are you smiling? I'm about to _die_!"

"Drama queen," I murmur and then, taking a deep breath I step out after Hawk.

_Here goes nothing._

...

(Gale)

I can't say today has been one of my favourites.

What with the plane ride here, having to then sit through ten minutes in a room with champagne sipping, oblivious idiots, plus Mellarks ever smiling presence, charming it up to everyone. _Because that's just what he does_.

Needless to say I'm not in the greatest mood.

So then, imagine, when _she_ steps out. Blonde hair, green eyes, ribbon, freckles, the whole bit. Followed by Rory, _my_ little brother, Rory who I've seen in the eyes of every dying kid in battle for the last nine months. Rory, the reason Ma hasn't slept a proper nights sleep in months. That look on her face rises up in my mind, gleaming with unshed tears, reproachful and accusatory.

_'All he ever wanted to do was be like you.'_

It's the torrents of relief running through me, the releasing of a tightness in my chest that I barely even knew was there until it was gone - _because he's alive_ – that stop me from putting two and two immediately.

"Katniss! It's so good to see you!" Undersee cries out, completely disregarding her superior officers (If one of my platoon did that to me, he'd have his ass handed to him. In a bowl.) and flinging herself into Katniss's arms. Katniss's isn't the most huggy person in the world, but somehow from somewhere she is able to pull that allusive cheery, touchy-feely part of her that is mostly only reserved for Mellark and Prim.

"I thought you were stationed in eleven?" Katniss says, pulling back from the hug with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Transferred," Undersee informs her brightly, a hand running over her head to fix her hair. Despite the fact that not a single bit of it is out of place. Figures. Still the ungrateful little mayor's daughter priss I remember then. No change there.

Surprise, surprise.

"Actually," She continues, dropping her hand, "I've been here for, oh God, nearly a year now. How the time flies-" She adds, with a quirk of her lips, and an airy wave to the hanger around her, "-when you live in a den of sin and debauchery".

"Bad mouthing our lovely, lovely home are we, Lieutenant?" Wheels booms in his grating voice, spinning his chair to face her. _Lieutenant? _Figures. Still, Captain trumps Lieutenant any day of the week. And no wonder the guy is so damn chummy with Mellark; Annoying gimpy bastards. They'd be perfect for one another. Can't believe Cheesy Buns hasn't already got down on one knee and popped the question to this guy too.

He seems to like doing that, when he's not too busy on his deathbed or girling up the place with his art. Yeah. I guess it's lucky for him that Katniss is man enough for the both of them.

I tune out at this point though since Undersee's voice is already grating on my nerves and my attention turns to Rory as he slinks over, hands in his pockets with that dogged _'who me?_' expression on his face. Which sports a split lip and one hell of a shiner. And shit, he's nearly as tall as I am nowadays. When the hell did that happen?

"Hey Gale," He hedges, eyeing me cautiously. The first words I've heard out of his mouth in nearly a year.

I don't know whether to hug the kid or punch him.

I leaning more towards option number two at this point to be honest.

...

(Madge)

Griffins statement in defence of our not-so-humble- home is drowned out by a sudden bout of yelling. From Hawthorne – being the emotionally unbalanced psychopath that he still obviously is – I expect it. But Trap? Their voices mingle and overlap so it's impossible to hear a coherent sentence out of either of them.

"Don't you '_hey Gale me_' you little-" Hawthorne snarls.

"I_ knew_ you'd be like this." Trap throws his hands up in the air in frustration, "I just knew it! You can't just-"

"-For months and fucking months," Hawthorne overrides, not listening at all. Typical. "Every time I came home, I was expecting to see-"

"Came home? What a god-damn _joke_. Do you even know what home looks li-"

"And Ma? You remember her right Rory? She hasn't had a proper nights sleep in _months,_ your little bullshit stunt here has-"

Trap jabs a finger into his brothers chest. "You _hypocrite_. You haven't seen what she's like when _you_ go out. Like she isn't up for days at a time whenever we hear that something has happened to you."

"I told you this would happen." I hear Katniss mutter to Peeta from behind me, as we all turn to watch them go at it. "It was your idea to bring him." Peeta replies lowly, but his voice is light and carries it's usual affection for her.

I, myself, find the whole thing bizarre. Like watching Trap argue with his slightly taller, slightly scruffier, slightly larger and mightily more repulsive twin. In the face, the only real difference between them is Trap doesn't have a beard, gets regular hair cuts (courtesy of yours truly) and doesn't have a scar over his eye (also funnily enough, courtesy of yours truly).

The whole thing is extremely creepy.

"And you know why I do it, you ungrateful little shit?" Hawthorne replies, using his extra inch or two of height to his advantage as he tries to overbear his brother. "Do you think it's_ fun_ for me, getting fucking shot at and watching-" He swallows- "and having to do the things that I do?" His expression is like dark thunderclouds, the kind with lightning that sets fire to tree's and thunder that bursts ear drums. In short, when angered, the guy is just a mite frightening.

"To keep _you_ safe." He continues, laying on the guilt thick, "Like I've been doing, busting my ass _for you_, since Dad-"

Oh. Big mistake. Don't mention the Dad._ Don't mention the Dad._

At which point Trap slugs his older brother. Well tries, but then suddenly Hawthorne is standing to the side of him, and has Trap in some sort of lock with the kids arm pinned to his back.

"Rory-"

"I _hate_ you," The Kid snarls and _means it_, struggling in the hold. There's a pause, and I see Griffin make a slight 'b_ack off_' hand gesture to Hawk and Myff as they step forward, until Hawthorne releases the kid, wordlessly. His face impassive. Scary Calm. Which is how Sphinx is, before he starts cracking skulls.

"You're not Dad," Trap says rubbing his arm, and his voice is rough with fury. "You think you are, but you're not even _close._"

And with those memorable last words, the Kid turns on heel and storms off. Probably going up to the roof.

Hawthorne makes to go after him, but I take a neat step forward to block his path. I know Trap, and going after him would just make this whole thing worse. Besides, what right does he have? To come storming in here saying those things, to his _brother_ of all people? How can he treat his own family like that?

"Leave him alone." I snap and then watch as he rounds on me, eyes narrowed in loathing. And I'm surprised at how fresh and immediate my own hatred rises up. I mean, I'm all for forgiving and forgetting, because really, who wants to walk around hating all the time?

Unless you have a very good reason.

Which I do.

Plus, the guy's an asshole.

…

(Katniss)

"_You_." Gale growls as he rounds on her. Madge looks tiny in comparison to his size and anger, but seems unfazed by this fact, and simply rolls her eyes. They could be in the D13 shooting range again, screaming at each other about how Madge is the worst shot in the world or how Gale is pathetic and needs to get a life.

"Yes, it's me." She replies her voice slipping into that condescending tone she uses only when talking to Gale. "Congratulations, evidently your memory isn't as awful as your people skills ." Her noses wrinkles in distaste as she looks at him. "Or personal grooming. You do know why they invented the razor and shaving cream, yes?"

Luckily, at this point, Gale's anger seems to have rendered him inarticulate.

You'd think, after two years apart they would have been able to put this behind them.

"I take it, they ain't exactly chums then?" Griffin asks me, gesturing between the two of them. Behind him, the Commodore is talking quickly into a communicator and seems to be paying no attention to the scene whatsoever.

"Perfect for each other really," Peeta replies with a smile, leaning on his walking-stick. "If only they could get over that sticky _I hate you _phase." I snort at his observation. Yeah, because like that's ever going to happen. He nudges my arm. "You might want to get in there though, before Gale tries to rip her throat out."

"You're exaggerating," I hiss back in Gale's defence."He wouldn't actually-"

"Figures_ you'd_ be here." Gale snaps, ignoring her slight on his appearance, seeming to have regained his ability to speak, or rather, yell. He takes a step forward and _towers_ over her. Madge is forced to crane her head up to look at him.

"What'd you do?" He sneers, "Give him your manual on how to disappear off the face of the earth for a year?"

"Not necessary." Madge replies calmly, examining her nails nonchalantly, because she knows that infuriates him. "He worked out he couldn't stand living in the same district as you all by himself."

Her smiles turns nasty.

Now, even I'll admit that was below the belt.

"_Gale._" I say, stepping forward to lay a hand on his arm before he does something stupid -

"Yeah, well. I guess that's the difference between Rory and you," Gale spits back, "when he left, _people actually cared_."

- Like that.

Because that's the thing about Gale and Madge. When they fight; _nothing_ is off limits. Now, imagine being smack in the middle of that.

I can't say it's particularly fun.

Madge flushes pink and goes to open her mouth, but is overridden.

"Lieutenant?" With a blink, Madge twists around to look at the Commodore, whose face is drawn in and pinched with annoyance. "May I see you alone for just a moment."

Madge makes an angry jabbing gesture with her finger towards Gale, who's chest is heaving and whose fists are clenched with anger. "Couldn't it possibly wait for just one-"

"_Now_. Undersee."

Madge sighs and vaguely waggles her fingers in front of her forehead, which I think must be a salute, but it's far from the crisp, respectful gestures that Gale's rank gets him when he's on duty. Or that I, on occasion receive when I'm out in the field.

"You're an asshole." Madge tells Gale, and his mouth sets in a grim line as she walks past. She ignores this and shoots a genuinely friendly smile to me, her mouth dimpling at the corners. "You and Peeta make yourself comfortable." She says, squeezing my arm, "I shouldn't be too long-"

The Commodore beckons. Griffin, in his chair is sitting behind her. His expression is far from the jovial man who I met just a short time ago. Clearly someone is in trouble. Can't be anything too serious though, since this is _Madge_ we're talking about.

Madge wrinkles her nose, bites her lip and ducks her head. Looking incredibly like Posy when she's been caught doing something wrong. "-Probably."

…

(Madge)

"Sit down Undersee." Commondore Sourbitch invites, gesturing to a chair, standing there like she owns the place.

"With all due respect Ma'am, I'd rather stand." I reply stiffly. Since I can't say she's my favourite person in the world, and I definitely know I'm not hers.

"I insist." She says with her eyes boring into me and in the back of my mind a voice is reminding me that this woman could demote my butt so far down the chain of command that Trap will be giving me orders. Behind her Griffin nods his head ever so slightly.

I take the seat and wait.

….

(Katniss)

"Tea, Coffee, Juice or something stronger?" The blue haired woman chirps as she ushers us into a dingy kitchen. "Nothing," Gale grunts from behind me. Underneath the rickety table is what appears to be an engine of some sort, sluggishly leaking oil into a puddle on the floor.

Hygienic.

"Coffee, if you don't mind. White with two." Peeta replies, easing himself into one of the chairs.

"Juice." I say, not taking a seat but instead leaning against some of the cupboards directly behind him. His hair is back to it's original length now, falling in soft ashy waves and curling just above his collar. I put my hand in my pockets and resit the urge to stroke it.

"Something stronger," A gruff voice grunts as the man with the eyepatch, whose name I have already forgotten, takes what would have been my seat at the rickety table.

The scarily large man squeezes himself through the door to take up an entire side of the room to himself and says nothing. Gale eyes him speculatively.

Putting a kettle on the stove, the Blue Haired wonder bustles about for the next few moments getting everyone's drink. The 'something stronger' includes a dark green liquid that when pored into a glass and mixed with a red liquid gives off a little puff of smoke. Ah. Typical Capitol drink, they can't seen to fathom the thought of ingesting something that doesn't sparkle, flame or have those pointless umbrella's in it.

Eyepatch grins and downs it in about three gulps.

"Juice was it, Hon?" The woman asks as she slides up to me closer than strictly necessary and putting the glass in my hand. Her eyes match her hair, an unnatural startling blue. Heavy, glittering eyeshadow and just like my old prep team, everything about her screams Capitol. I wonder if she's ever been blinded by glitter, it seems overwhelmingly likely.

"I know what you're thinking," She says a hand going up to smooth over her curls, my eyebrows raise since I doubt it. "And yes, I am a natural Blue." Close enough.

She smiles and holds out a hand, "Names Myff by the way."

"Right." Is all I reply as I shake the offered appendage, wondering briefly why is it she has to stand so close to me. Essentially living in what is a cramped gigantic sewer, I'm a big fan of personal space when and where I can get it.

"You know," She purrs as I take a sip from the cup, "You're much prettier in real life than you are on screen." Her hand runs lightly up the skin on my arm and any juice that is in my mouth at that point, either gets spat back into the cup or sprayed down the front of her uniform.

Myff wrinkles her nose a little, looking down at her shirt now with orange stains on it. "Never quite had that reaction."

Wiping liquid from my mouth I hear Peeta turn a laugh into a cough. You'd think, being engaged to me, he'd be somewhat insulted on my behalf.

Evidently not.

"Uh-" I manage to choke out, completely at a loss of what to say. Knowing Finnick and Annie, I would have thought I'd be more prepared for situations like these. I guess not.

"I think," Peeta interjects, laughter in his voice, which he stifles at the look I send him. "- What Katniss means to say is that while incredibly flattered by your affections, unfortunately, she's taken."

Or something like that.

"Oh," Myff pouts expertly, "Right. I suppose she is at that."

She looks disheartened for a moment until her face brightens as an idea comes to her.

"How about you let me borrow her. Just for the night." Her eye lashes flicker, spraying glitter and her smile is persuasive. "I'd let you watch even." She gives Peeta an appraising look. "Or, actually, how would you feel about joining? Handsome lad like you, I can definitely see some chocolate syrup, whipped cream and handcuffs in your near future."

"Actually, that does sound like-"

"_Peeta_." I hiss and can feel heat surging up my face. Annoyance too, while Peeta may be handsome the only person allowed to appreciate this fact, is me.

"Kidding." He grins and then shoots Myff an apologetic look. "Sorry, but I'm going to have to say no. The only person who gets to use chocolate and handcuffs simultaneously anywhere in my vicinity is my wife to be."

Myff sighs and her shoulders sag in disappointment. "Why is it-" She asks no one in particular, pulling herself up to sit on the bench next to me "-that the pretty ones are always taken? Insane or Unwilling?"

I move down a few inches away from her and can't trust myself to speak at this point.

"Hallelujah." Eyepatch grunts and holds up his fourth drink, toasting to no one in particular. He wobbles slightly in his seat.

Myff rolls her eyes before turning to me with a bright smile and no indication that I'd essentially just rejected her. "So, Mockingjay," She inquires, "How do you know our Emmie?"

….

(Madge)

"You might be surprised to hear," The Commodore begins, standing stiff with perfect posture with hands clasped behind her back. She peers down her nose at me with that look. The '_you're not fit to be in my army_' expression that she wears whenever she is forced to talk to me. Which, lets face it, is not all that often so I don't know what she's annoyed about.

"That I've just now gotten a report from the Medical centre of an officer being admitted with several facial injuries. Would you like to have a guess who that officer might be?"

Ah. Right. I think it bears mentioning that normally I'm a pretty honest person. Thou shalt not lie and all that. However, in situations like these, I've found the best course of action is... to lie through your teeth.

"I'm sure there are dozens of officers with injuries, Commodore." I reply with a completely straight face. "Since there's a war on, you know. It's a bit hazardous to one's health. So unless you want to narrow it down with a game of twenty questions or charades, which is always fun then I can't - "

Behind her Griffin makes a gesture that I interpret to mean my flaming, gruesome death if I don't reign it in, so I swallow down the end of that remark and reply crisply, "- I mean, No Ma'am. I could not hazard a guess as to who that may be."

"As usual Undersee," The Commodore replies, her expression not altering an inch, "your unfailing ability to wrongly assume that the patented drivel that comes out of your mouth is actually amusing never ceases to amaze. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Certainly Commodore." I get out, which actually means; 'Y_es. Well your hair is terrible. So I guess that makes us even._'

….

(Katniss)

I stare at her in confusion, "Who?"

"Emmie. You know," Myff says with an airy wave of her hand, "The uppity blonde with the green eyes, about yay tall-" she holds up her hand at shoulder height "-ribbon in her hair -"

"Madge," I say, and then wrinkle my nose. _Emmie?_ Really. What's wrong with calling her her actual name?

"Right, yeah. That's the ticket." Myff says, crossing her legs and leaning forward. "So, what's the deal? You two meet her in the field? I've got to say, you look remarkably non-traumatized for people who have flown with her."

"She was from Twelve," I reply, internally puzzling out why Madge has evidently chosen to withhold this information. "She was the Mayors daughter actually. We knew her from before the-" I swallow and suddenly my mouth feels like I've been chewing sawdust.

"-Just from before." Peeta finishes for me.

"Always thought she was from two m'self," Eyepatch slurrs before promptly toppling off his chair into a heap on the ground.

No one seems to find this surprising.

"Huh. Mayors daughter, from Twelve. No kidding. I guess that explains the- ah," Myff gestures vaguely to her shoulder, a thoughtful expression on her face "- always wondered about that. And Trap- Rory I mean, and that other fine looking thing you came in here with, cousins of yours? I remember from seeing the interviews back home."

"More like good friends to the family." I reply heatedly with my usual loathing for the fact that the rumour of Gale being my cousin is so hard to debunk. And that even now, nearly four years on, people still believe it.

"And Madge never told you this?" Peeta inquires, and frankly I'm wondering the same thing myself.

"If you know her like you claim," Myff replies, "then I don't need to tell you she's not exactly little Miss-talk-a-lot"

"Is that why you insist on _always_ talking about me when I'm not here then?" Madge's voice chimes in from the door, her arms folded.

…

(Madge)

"Flight Lieutenant Middleton," The Commodore continues, "has made the allegation that another officer assaulted him, resulting in a series of facial injuries."

Behind her Griffin gives an barely visible shake of his head. Code for; Lie. Denile. Lie. Or possibly; When she leaves, I'm going to kill you.

"How awful." I shake my head, keeping back a smile. "People these days, I mean, what is the world coming too?".

"He alleges that the officer in question, was _you_ Undersee."

_Tattle tale_, I inwardly huff.

"Really?" I say and my eyebrows shoot up in a credible show of shock, "Well, that's peculiar. Since I've been confined to the hanger, under direct orders, for the past three days." There's a pause as I wonder how far I can push it, and then, "Perhaps he's hallucinating?"

Her smile is bland. "I'm reasonably confident that his very real broken nose is not a figment of his, or my imagination. Especially in light of the previous incident between Lieutenant Middleton and yourself."

"Oh, you mean, when he cornered me in the hanger, dropped his pants and demanded I suck his-"

Yes, that was a fun day. Full of romance.

"I'm guessing," Griffin overrides me at this point, "That what the lieutenant here is trying to communicate, if in a rather roundabout way, is that unless there was any serious harm done I don't think that _whose nose was broken by whom_ is really that big of an issue at this particular point in time, especially with our honored_ guests_ here at the moment, wouldn't you agree Azura?"

The Commodore narrows her eyes at me. I drop my gaze respectfully and stare at my boots. They need to be polished.

"Very well," She decides after a moment, although it should be noted that she doesn't exactly sound cheery. "Dismissed Lieutenant."

Saluting them both I turn on heel and exit, feeling quietly relived about how that turned out.

It could have been worse.

….

(Katniss)

I turn to Madge as she stands in the doorway.

"Well someone has to do it," Peeta chimes in with a grin, "Since you, apparently don't talk about yourself – at all."

"Exactly, little miss-Mayors-daughter-from-Twelve." Myff chimes in, hands on hips. "For future reference, when people ask you about yourself you tell them something along the lines of; I'm allergic to cats, can't cook to save my life and Oh, by the way, _I grew up with the Mockingjay_. Just the essentials, you know?"

"It's like you only use me for my connections." Madge sighs dramatically, and then smiles. "Now, as interesting as the kitchen is, how about we give our guests the grand tour, Katniss I'd love for you to meet my- Wait." Her eyes narrow as she scans the kitchen, "Where's Hawthorne?"

Glancing around my stomach twists a little with guilt. Because I didn't even notice Gale had left.

….

(Gale)

Drink, that's what I want. A fucking drink. But not with Catnip standing there, for once looking like she's having a decent time. But it's stifling, watching them chatter and sip juice and all I want to do is get out of this oversized tin fucking lunchbox. So I slip away, unnoticed by anyone, outside. There's a couple of trees and a clump of bushes a couple of yards away and fuck it - it's no woods, but it'll do.

_'I hate you!' _

The words burn in my ears and once I'm out of eyesight the flask is out of my jacket and the liquor burning down my throat and damn, that hits the spot. I lean back against the tree and my hands clench around the metal. My thumb running over the inscription on the bottom.

_Haymitch, Ne quid nimis._

An old private of mine, Gill - the guy had the biggest mouth you ever saw but he knew his shit -had a look at the inscription and said it was written in a dead language, one from before the dark days even. Trust Haymitch, to get gibberish engraved on a flask. My mouth twists sourly at this train of thought, which ends, for a split second in me hearing bullets cutting through the undergrowth around us, bombs going off and Gill bleeding out in my arms and.. _and, fuck, don't – don't think about that._

I center my concentration on the metal in my hands to keep those thoughts away. It's scratched to hell, chipped and severely dented on one side. From the day I got shot in heart. I'd be a corpse if this thing hadn't been on me. Miraculously, somehow the bullet didn't pierce the metal. Obviously, some bastard up there is looking out for me.

Or enjoys watching me suffer.

_'He worked out he couldn't stand living in the same district as you all by himself.' _I hate myself for doubting and wondering if maybe... is that the truth? And it boggles my mind that something that came out of _her_ mouth can make me feel like this. Taking another pull I feel the liquid slosh around in the three quarters empty – _already_ – tin.

I quickly stow it back in my jacket when I hear Catnip calling my name.

….

A/n: Yeah, it's all fun and games until we get inside Gales head.

Epic mad kudos go to; **Solaryllis,** for reviewing the chapters all in one hit. Dedication guys. And also to, **heyyodude** for making me laugh and to **Marice El'Wing** for knowing dirty french words.

Anyways, uh. Yeah. Did it live up to your expectations?

Review?


	7. As the Ocean Runs Red

**Animus**

_Chapter Four_

As the Ocean runs Red

…

(Madge)

Hawthorne as it turns out, is outside near the western perimeter, skulking around and generally being the shady miscreant he is.

"Hot-_dayum_." Myff murmurs in my ear as we listen to the weak half-joking excuse he prattles to Katniss about sussing out the hunting around here with a nod to the small clump of bushes he was hiding in. But something about the way he says it seems off, and I wait for Katniss to cut through the lie in that direct way of hers and ask him what he's really doing out here. Probably looking for his brother so he can bully him some more. Because that's just how loving Hawthorne is.

But she doesn't and instead laughs while making a remark about what kind of game he was hoping to get, mice? And, inexplicably seems to buy his lie. Hawthorne grins crookedly at her. Not for the first time I find myself wondering why she was so unable to make a choice between the two of them, especially knowing how Peeta was completely in love with her.

There's no contest in my mind about who is better for her.

My head snaps up when simultaneously I hear someone say my name and feel Myff elbow in my side, for the second time today. It's like being stabbed. I swear she must grind them on a whetstone.

"Sorry, pardon?" I say to Katniss, rubbing my now severely bruised if not broken ribs. Hawthorne, being so very filled with compassion for the suffering of his fellow man - well woman - snorts loudly. Like a pig.

It suits him.

…

(Katniss)

"How about a tour?" I reiterate to Madge as she glares at Gale, her green eyes like slits of acid between her lashes. She blinks at me when I speak, as though only just remembering me, her mouth dimples at the corners when she smiles. It's the sort of thing that reminds me, despite the uniform, that she's still the piano playing mayors daughter from twelve.

"Later." She says pulling me back towards the hanger. "First I'd like you to meet someone." The group follow behind us.

The heavy musk of jet fuel and metal assault my nose when we cross the threshold from the outside to the inside. I quench my pang of yearning for the outdoors, even it if is a couple of trees and half-wilted bushes as I let Madge lead me over to the plane from before. _The Phoenix. _Up close I can see that black scorch marks, scratches and dents lacerate the wings and underbelly, spoiling the beautiful paint job in places. Two lots of five messily painted lines decorate the tail, just left of the rudder. I'm wondering what they mean when Madge starts talking.

"This is my baby." She croons as I'm lead to nose, the beady black eyes of the bird stare vacantly over my head. "She's an A3-80 tactical fighter." Madge slaps the metallic underbelly and beams like a proud mother. "Isn't she beautiful?"

"Nice paint work." Peeta says, standing to my left. His fingers brush mine for the briefest of moments leaving my fingertips pleasantly tingly. I smile to myself. "A real talent must have painted that."

"The artist was a complete pain," Madge complains, words that are contradicted with a wide dimpled grin. "Couldn't stand the guy."

"Now, It's like you're purposely hurting my feelings." Peeta replies, and my head snaps around to him. "_You _painted that?" I'd like to know when. It must have taken a while.

Peeta nods with a grin, running his fingers over a cluster of feathers. "Gorgeous isn't she?"

"Oh, yes." I reply halting, my eyes pass over the paint and land on the missile capsules nestled under the wings, and the automatic gailting-gun protruding from under the cockpit. "It's lovely." It takes me a few moments to wrap my head around the fact that _Madge_ has anything to do with something so heavily armed. Her smile widens at my words.

"Do you want to see her interior?" There's real excitement in her voice and I couldn't say no if a tried. Much like Prim when she wanted to keep useless cat of hers. "I've just had the leather redone." Before I can nod her hand dives into a pocket and she pulls out a small device, there's a click and a seamless door to the fuselage falls open with a hydrologic hiss and a deep reverberating clank when it hits the floor.

Everyone winces at the noise.

"I've told her about seventeen fucking times to oil that bloody door." Myff mutters darkly from somewhere behind me. Madge sniffs and ignores this as she bounds up the steps and disappears into her plane, calling us to follow her up. Which we do.

"Seen it." Myff says with an indifferent flap of her hand, "So I'll go and see if there's anything around here for you to all eat. You all must be famished yeah?"

I don't realise how hungry I am until she says this, we all give an appreciative murmur to the affirmative before climbing up. And it's a tight fit, with the five- now four of us. Gale is practically bent double at the waist to fit in. "It's like a match box in here." He mutters, and I'm quietly thinking the same thing myself as I feel the itch of that old claustrophobic fear that I've had ever since the death of my father and possibly even before, instinctively my breathing quickens and my fists clench.

"Feel free to step out whenever you want," Madge tells him with a bland smile, "Preferably several _thousand_ miles out, into a sixty foot inescapable hole full of flesh eating insects, if you can possibly manage it."

"Wouldn't want to get your hopes up." He replies as he examines a mound of what appears to be the ammunition belt for the gailtling gun, left in a messy bundle under two of the four seats. Each bullet is about the length and width of my pointer finger. Unlike, almost all the hover planes I've been in, this fuselage has no windows. But someone, with little to no artistic talent has drawn chalk squares with scenery inside them at even distances along the wall. Each square has a sun drawn in it.

"How thoughtful of you." Madge murmurs with heavy sarcasm, tapping in a code to a panel on the wall. Gale makes a gun with his fingers and mimes shooting her in the head when her back is turned. He stops and mouths "_Joking_" when frowning, I catch his eye.

"And this," Madge says as the wall that separates the fuselage and the cockpit cracks in the middle and snaps open completely, "Is where the magic happens."

We all stare. Behind me I can hear Gale choke on air.

In the middle is a seat, covered in pink leather and the thick belts that strap the pilot in are covered in pink sparkly fur. The ceiling is carpeted in the same material. Beyond these is a mass of controllers, screens, dials, switches and leavers spread out on the dash board and above the windscreen. Madge beams at us. "Cute huh?"

"It's very..." I begin haltingly, unable to quite find the words as I watch the pair of fluffy pink dice that dangle in front of the windows. ".. Pink. Very pink." Peeta finishes for me, for which I am grateful. "But nice, it's really nice Madge." He is hasty to add at her wilting expression.

"Yeah," Gale says in disgust, brushing sparkles out of his hair. " Nice like being raped by a marshmallow."

I myself am having considerable difficulty picturing anyone fighting the Capitol in this. It would be like watching a baby rabbit try to take on a pack of ravenous wild dogs.

Madge opens her mouth to fire yet another scathing remark at Gale but is interrupted by a bout of white noise coming from behind her, followed by a distorted voice as it speaks through the radio.

"_Securite. Securite. All stations. This is Delta, Echo, Echo, Five. Delta, Echo, Echo, Five. Over._"

With deft practiced movements Madge flicks two switches over her head and pulls down a speaker to her mouth. "Delta, Echo, Echo five, this is Juliet, Niner, Six, Six, Three. Reading you five. Send your traffic. Over.."

"_Roger that_." The radio cackles, "_We've got a visual on a batch of survivors, just west of the border. Hoping you guys could pick them up. Over_."

"Copy." Madge replies, her posture straightening, "Any particular reason you boys can't? Over."

"_Yeah. I'm missin' lunch. I get cranky when I don't get me three square meals a day, so don't dick around Undersee, and get your perky blonde ass down here. Over_."

Behind me Gale doesn't even bother to disguise his laugh. Peeta, at least, has the decency to turn his into a cough.

"Oh, Julius, I bet you say that to all the girls." Madge simpers into the speaker and through the radio I hear laughter. "Which is probably why you'll have having that lunch _alone. _I'm putting you through to give the coordinates now. We'll be out ASAP. Standby."

"_Wilco. Out._"

Flicking another switch, Madge says down the radio. "Griffin? Squad 4 have found a few stragglers they want us to pick up. They should be on the line now. Out."

"_Rodger_." A gruff voice growls through the speaker, "_Get down here_."

"Not rest for the wicked right?" Madge says with a sigh, "Come on Mockingjay. You can see what they pay us for."

…

Griffin, the dark human mountain, Myff and a platter of sandwiches await us as we follow Madge up a flight of stairs and into a control room of sorts. Heavy radio equipment is placed all along one wall, under a wide window, and a table with a illuminated map of Panem sits in the centre. The platter of sandwiches and Myffs boots obscure Districts 13,12 and 6.

"Where's the kid? Done with his shit-fit?" Griffin asks Madge as the group as we enter. Next to me Gale stiffens.

"The Roof probably, he'll come down when he's ready." She replies as she seats herself on the table, over district 7 and 8. "Where's the commodore?"

"Left. Said there's going to be a fancy shin-dig in town in honor of our Guests tomorrow night though." Myff answers, indifferent.

"Excellent." Madge says, clapping her hands. "I can't even remember the last time I wore something pretty." I can practically feel Gale roll his eyes.

Griffin looks over at me, an approving smile on his scarred face. "How you liking the place so far Miss Everdeen? " He asks.

"We've been to worse." I reply, "Hardly seen any rats."

Griffins booming laughter at my comment seems just a trifle overboard. "Well, can't get much better than that eh? Hardly any rats." He shakes his head with a grin.

"Yeah, _hardly_." Gale mutters eying Madge. Her eyes narrow fractionally, but otherwise ignores him.

"How far are they? The survivors I mean." Peeta interrupts and filches a sandwich from the platter. I do too. They're not bad actually, cucumber I think, but I can't be sure since I've only ever had it the once, in 11 just after it was taken back by the Mockingjay forces. Gale reaches over and grabs one also before demolishing it in about two bites. He goes to take two more, seems to re-consider it and instead takes four. Peeta laughs into his palm.

"Shut it, Cheesy buns." Gale threatens around a mouthful of sandwiches, spraying crumbs on his collar. Madge shoots him a disgusted look.

Griffin rattles off a stack of co-ordinates that mean nothing to me and everyone nods. "Take _The Jay_," Myff suggests "It has the most room. And we'd still make it back before sunset"

"_The Jay_?" Madge interjects with a wrinkled nose. "But since the twins are gone, we're down two gunners. We can take her out without a full crew."

The big man makes a few rapid movements with his hands, and it's then that I see the awkward way he swallows and the set of his jaw. I have to marvel at whoever had the guts to avox him. He looks like he could crush my head in his hands without working up a sweat. I also can't help but notice that a lot of his hand movements are made in our direction.

Everyone turns to look at us.

"Katniss..." Madge begins tentatively.

…

(Ten minutes)

"It's loose." I mutter, trying to keep the whining note out of my voice as I tug on the one piece shiny silver-grey latex suit Madge has somehow managed to get me in. I don't know how she did it, first she's blinking at me in that wide eyed way of hers and then suddenly I'm in a plane, covered in silver rubber. I suspect hypnotism, or drugs. Probably both.

"That's because it's mine." Madge explains as she adjusts a pair of thick goggles over her eyes, the screen flashes orange and I can see what appears to be numbers flashing down the lenses. She goes cross eyed looking at them. "Don't worry, it's heat-adjustable latex, It'll shrink to fit you as your body heat warms it up." She looks up at me and smiles, "Pretty neat right?"

"Yeah. Neat." I grumble, pulling at my collar and I've never been so glad in my life for the absence of a mirror. Fortunately they are in short supply on a air-carrier. I pause for a moment to glance out the only window in this room, a small porthole about the size of my face. I can see hazy blue mountains off several miles in the horizon, and a blur of green forrest and tree tops as we coast over them. I bite down a sigh of longing and go back to picking at my sleeve, already I can feel it slowly shrinking to fit. I probably look like I got into a brawl with some silver paint, and lost.

"It is _really_ necessary though?" I ask, wanting nothing more than to get back into my comfortable pants, boots and jacket.

"Unfortunately, yes." Madge replies, adjusting her headset some more, she touches another button on the side and says, "Radio check, you reading me Sphinx?" A pause and then, "Oh. Good."

Privately, I have to wonder how someone with no tongue can operate a radio. But instead say, "If it's so necessary where's yours?" Gesturing to the light white blouse and short leather jacket she has swapped her uniform for. My tone is slightly accusatory.

"Since I've been trained for it," She replies, still fiddling with buttons and equipment and not looking up, "I've got more g-force tolerance than you do. A typical person can handle about 4gs maybe 5 depending on their level of physical fitness before going into- Oh, brace yourself." At which point the plane makes a sharp bank to the left, bumping and shaking as it does so. I have just enough time to lock my knees and prevent myself from sliding into the wall. Quietly I'm wondering how this hunk of junk even gets off the ground, let alone has the capacity to carry survivors.

Behind us someone mutters a long string of colourful profanities. Madge's mouth tugs up at the corner in a smirk. "I feel like a fucking spoon." Gale grumbles from behind us, his face paler than usual with a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and I'm glad to see that he too is tugging at the sleeves of his own hideous suit. Although, he has the foresight to cover the lower part of his silver-clad body with pants. In comparison I feel naked._ Naked and covered in coal dust,_ I think humourlessly.

"Funny, since you look like an idiot." Madge tells him with a sweet smile. "But that has nothing to do with the suit."

"Speaking of which, where's yours?" Gale sneers at her, "Afraid it won't match your handbag and shoes, _Princess?_"

I sigh. Here we go again.

"I don't know," Peeta calls from behind us before Madge can reply. He has his own suit on. No pants. It fits him like a glove. A little too like a glove, I think, when I see Madge give him a appreciative glace. When I catch her eye she gives me a cheeky dimpled _deceptively_ innocent grin and shrugs. "I don't think they're too bad." He stretches his arm out to get the feel of it and adds, "Finnick would love one." ("Exactly my point." Gale mutters under his breath, I elbow him lightly.) Peeta turns to Madge. "Why aren't you suited up like the rest of us? Afraid to look good in tights?"

Peeta, it should be noted, has obviously been spending too much time with Finnick lately.

Madge rolls her eyes. _"As I was just saying_, before I was interrupted by Tweedle idiot here," A thumb jerk in Gale's direction. He mimes strangling her when she turns her head. "The average person can withstand about 5g's depending on their physical fitness, any-more and they go go in G-LOC." She tugs up the collar of her jacket, "Pilots can be trained to withstand a lot more, but in the unlikely event that we're forced into some high speed tactical maneuvers, these suits may just save your lives."

There's a rare moment when Peeta, Gale and I seem to be on the same page as we all say something along the lines of, "Huh?" Or in Gale's case, "You want to try that in some English this time, Princess?"

_Nice Gale._

Madge sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. "If we do some fast loop-de-loops the suits will help prevent the blood from rushing to your head, bursting the capillaries in your eyes and _killing you_."

Suddenly they don't seem like such a bad idea.

"Simple enough to understand?" She turns to Gale, "Or do I need to whip out the flask cards and diagrams? That is," She adds half-under her breath, "Assuming _you can actually read._"

"No. I got it." Gale replies, his mouth set in a grim line, whether at her tone or her words or her description of our possible death I can't tell. The only reason he's even here is because of Madge. He doesn't want her to know he can't stand flying. She'd never let him live it down, especially when it's something that comes so naturally to her.

"_Congratulations_." Madge drawls and sarcasm all but drips from her mouth. "Maybe, before they stick you back into the pen with all the other monkeys, you can learn how to count to ten without using your fingers."

"Looking forward to it," Gale returns, "But in the meantime, how's this for a finger." And he flips her an obscene hand gesture.

"Oh, how so very typical." Madge spits back, "Are you even capable of-"

"Should have made some popcorn," Peeta says to me in a carrying whisper, "It's even better than watching Haymitch and Effie when they-" Both their heads snap towards him, green eyes and grey narrowed in his direction. "Or not." He says, his hands protectively in front of him.

"If you love your remaining 3.5 limbs Cheesy buns, I suggest you _shut your mouth_." Gale tells him in warning.

"Empty threats." Peeta scoffs good-naturedly, waving a hand dismissively, "You say that at least twice a week."

"Third time's the charm they say." Is the growled response. If he could, he'd be rolling up his sleeves at this point.

"Alright, alright, _enough_." I interject because coupled with his anxiety of flying and Madge irking him, I'm a little afraid that the threat might stop being just that, a threat. So now would probably not be the time to play the 'incur Gale's ire game'. I shoot Peeta a disapproving look and he at least has the grace to look apologetic. "Both of you." I feel the need to add when Madge begins to open her mouth. At my words she closes it with a sulky pout, and brings her finger up to a button at her temple. In her headset I see the miniature backwards reflection of Myff, her mouth moving as she talks.

"Yes? Oh, really?" Madge says into her mic, "Excellent. Slow down a few knots and circle, we'll approach from the west, so they have enough time to see our colors." Madge takes her finger from her head then and the lenses go blank. "Which reminds me." Digging around in her jacket pocket she pulls out three ear-pieces and hands them to each of us. "Protocol requires every crew member have one of these. It's standard procedure."

"I _hate_ these things." Peeta mutters with agitation, yet nevertheless fits it to his ear. "Even your own head isn't yours anymore." His hand twitches ever so slightly, I reach over and clasp it.

"Well, look at it this way, you probably won't have to use it and you now get the privilege to come see what flying _really_ is" Madge says, pushing her goggles back from her eyes. Curiosity prompts me to nod, so I take Peeta's hand and a very reluctant Gale trails behind us we follow Madge down a cramped corridor to an overhead hatch. She punches in a code and it grinds open with a muffled screech. Clear blue sky is visible as she climbs up through beckoning for us to follow. Peeta goes first but bats my hand gently away as I try to help him up. "I've got it Katniss."

I climb through after him but not before I hear Gale mutter, "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Immediately wind whips strands of hair out of my braid and into my face, and I feel the heat of the sun on my face. The air seems thinner, sweeter somehow and smells different. Clambering out onto a platform of sorts I push my hair out of my eyes to get a good look.

My voice stills in my throat.

To our right as far as my eye can see is blue. Sparkling beautiful ocean, speckled with glittering sunlight and white foam waves as they break on the surface. Everything else is a patchwork of rolling hills, mountains and deep green wilderness. We fly slowly enough for the individual tree's and greenery to be visible.

"Beautiful isn't it?" Madge's voice comes from surprisingly close behind me. She holds up a long piece of thick rope with a clasp on the end. "Rule number one of being up here; Always, _always_ have on your safety line." She hooks it to my belt and gives it a secure tug. "It's also rule number 2, 3, 5 and 17." I turn to see that yes, Peeta already has his hooked on and is leaning far enough over the railing to make something inside me to twist with worry.

"Here," Madge says as Gale climbs through, thrusting his line into his hands, "It goes against every fibre of my being, but this will stop you from killing yourself. Protocol _requires_ me to tell you that if you feel the need to take it off, don't." She turns away abruptly and either doesn't notice or ignores the twitch of his jaw, the fact that he's sweating profusely and that his fists are clenched so hard his knuckles are white. In short, antagonizing him now isn't the best idea.

"You okay?" I ask quietly enough for Madge not to hear as she reaches the railing, bracing her weight on her hands and leaning far over the railing, one of her feet kicked partially in the air behind her. Her smile is exhilarated, joyous and her carefree mood is infectious. Madge never appeared this happy back in twelve, at least not that I saw.

"Just fucking peachy Catnip." Gale, the complete antithesis of Madge at this moment, somehow manages to grind out through clenched teeth reverting my attention back to him. I know him well enough to see he wouldn't appreciate me babying him now. So I leave him standing in the middle of the platform, resolutely staring at his boots, and not at the long drop down. He mutters a string of constant curses under his breath. Interspersed between them I catch Madge's name, references to her parentage and comments about her sanity.

Looking around I see that on each end of this platform is a one man machine gun set on some sort of revolving device so it has 360 degree vision. These are what they want Gale and I to man in case of an emergency, which, Madge has assured me multiple times, is highly unlikely. _We're all perfectly safe Katniss, It's just a precaution. _Just off the platform is a large intimidating cannon. Right, _safe._

Possibly the more poignant lesson I took away from being a victor in the hunger games; We are never safe.

"Look," Madge points to a dot on the horizon just over some distant hills and forests. There's a column of billowing dark smoke emanating from it. "That was four." She tells me softly, "It's been months, and see, it's still smoldering."

"Were you- I mean, you must have seen it. Being so close." I ask as I stare out at the destruction, guilt, horror and hatred mingling in the pit of my stomach. Thousands died that night. Women, children, wounded, there was a large rebel hospital in four. They used fire bombs, the same as twelve, though Snow seems to want to outdo himself each time in terms of horror, cruelty and the sheer magnitude of death because, in addition to the bombers raining fire from the sky other other planes dumped acid into the water, horribly killing those who thought they could swim to safety. I've have it on good authority that after the bombs went down, the screaming could be heard so far as in District 6. Gale was there and he still barely speaks of it. It's part of the reason he's been around so much lately, probation. Although I won't complain (Regular Hunting partners still being a rarity) my blood still boils at the thought that they - _control_ - hoisted him with the blame.

"Yes." Madge replies after a moments hesitation, her voice tight and guarded. Her mouth twists downward at the corner before continuing. "Well, I'm sure you know how little warning they had. When I got there, it was already burning." I can practically see the flames reflected in her eyes. It must have been like Twelve all over again. She turns to me and what I see in her expression is unsettling.

"I made ace in four hours that night. They gave me a _medal_ for it_._" She spits with eyes like acid, burning in what I can only define as the purest contempt. That expression I've seen on her face a few times, and only once truly directly at me.

It wasn't fun needless to say.

"Madge, -"

I'm interrupted as a bout of loud white noise in my ear makes me yelp and wince. And then a grainy voice – Myff – says, "_We should be coming up on them now. Port side_."

Madge grins, all traces of scorn erased from her face so fast you couldn't even tell what been there at all. "You're going to give some survivors a big surprise when they see whose come to rescue them." She tells me, beaming. I grin back weakly, her swift mood change throwing me a little. "They're going to love it." Something flickers in the screen of her goggles and her head snaps to the left as the land levels out and meets the sea on a white beach. She points along the coast line, leaning far over the railing. "They should be somewhere around- _Oh, God_."

The first thing I register as my eye followers her finger is that the sea directly below us is not blue.

But red.

…

"_When the people heard the sound of the horns, they shouted as loud as they could. Suddenly, the walls of Jericho collapsed, and the Israelites charged straight into the city from every side and captured it. They completely destroyed everything in it – men and women, young and old, cattle, sheep, donkeys – everything."_

(Joshua 6:20-21 NLT)

…

_A/n: 29/09/2013 - Added slightly more detail to the scene where Katniss and Madge discuss what happened in 4 in order to have the story line up a little more with recent addition. More additions will probably follow. Be because, lets face it, this shit can always get better._

_ttyl._

_Is._

_A/n: _Yeah. Bible-quote. And a Cliffhanger. Because I'm evil like that. This chapter was mostly Katniss, but I think it worked. Though the next chapter is going to be Madge, maybe some Katniss too. :) And action-filled. And to get you all primed, I'm going to give a spoiler and say the evil creepy death monkey's strike again. Lol. And why did I give Madge an awesome plane? Because I can.

I liked writing Gale/Madge dialogue. But I think I went a bit overboard on the snark... did I? Because there's plenty where that came from. And I also liked writing the radio speak, makes me feel like I'm in Topgun... instead of sitting at my computer eating nacho's. Vroooom. Vrooom.

Also, MERRY 25th OF DECEMBER to all, because you know, not everyone celebrates the jolly fat man B&Eing their house. :)

Big shoutout to a few particular super special awesome reviewers; **KenoshaChick, **I get such a kick when you review my stories. It's like being stepped on by Jesus. I love it. To **roj, **_Ne quid nimis _means 'Nothing in excess' (Don't worry, I don't know latin either. That's why I love the internets) and that inscription was already on the flask when Haymitch got it, that's all I'm sayin' about it though. And last but not least, **epipole**, because yes, I find Gale's bitterness entertaining too. Poor boy,

So, huh, review? Seriously, even if you think it's total horseshit, they help authors to improve and to gain more readers. Much, _much_ love to all those who have already. You make my day. Repeatedly.

- Is.


	8. Every planet we reach is Dead

**# Basically two chapters consolidated into one, so it's super long. The killer monkey's from CF make an appearance at the end though, so there's something to look forward too.**

**Animus  
**

_Chapter Five_

Every planet we reach is Dead

..

(Katniss)

It takes me a moment to make sense of what I am seeing as the hover craft drifts closer. The pure white of the sand below us is red, to match the waves that break onto the shore, a foamy, bloody, red. Mangled body-_parts_, not bodies, bob in the shallows or lay discarded on the beach. An arm here, a leg a few paces away, another leg just near it, linked only by a few ripped pieces of torn flesh. A gory lump that I think could be a small torso strewn between them. The wind wafts the overwhelming thick scent of the mess directly to us. Revulsion and horror bubble up in me, from my stomach to my throat. The process of cutting it off and forcing the bile back down is an all too familiar sensation, with the Games, the Quell and the War almost nothing can turn my stomach these days. Not even this.

Madge, who perhaps is not as accustomed to these sights as I am, makes a noise in the back of her throat, almost like a '_urk_', leans far over the railing and vomits. I barely notice the damp splatter or the smell as the pre-digested remains of her last meal slide off the metal hull of the ship.

"Mines or gunfire, if you were to have a guess?" Gale asks me over Madge's retching, and it's only due to years of having him soundlessly melt out of the woods, that I don't startle at the sound of his voice. With a mouth set into a grim line and knuckles that mirror mine as they grip the railing tight enough to become bone white, his expression is bleak. Frightening to me in more ways than one. A silent promise of death to whoever has done this.

"Neither." I reply, tearing my gaze away from the scene as I feel gentle fingers press into my spine. "They've been ripped apart, not blown to pieces." Recently too, if the smell is anything to do by.

"Mutts," Peeta confirms in a hard voice, his fingers rhythmically smoothing up and down the ridge of my back. "They must be getting desperate. To be just releasing them into the wild at random now. " He points to the line of tree's a few yards back from where the sand dunes begin. "Probably came from there."

Gale snorts. "So much for this area being secured." He glances down at Madge as she pulls herself back from the railing, her cheeks flushed and her chin slick with bile. "You finished yet Princess?"

She doesn't reply, though the look she shoots him would peel paint.

…

(Madge)

At which point as though to prove to everyone here beyond all reasonable doubt that I need to be coddled like a child, Myff's voice crackles through the channel, the tender concern in her voice palpable. "_Are you okay honey?_"

_Not particularly._ But like I'm actually going to say that.

Since I can practically _feel_ Hawthornes delight as my stunning display of digestive pyrotechnics, his belief that I can't handle myself out here pretty much confirmed. In my defence, we all can't have grown up used to blood, gore and torturing kittens, puppies, orphans or whatever else it is he did in those woods back in 12.

"I'm _fine_." I all but snap down the mic, wiping my hopefully now vomit chunk free face with my sleeve. Which I make a mental note to wash when I get back to base. All that meets this comment is a disbelieving silence. And then;

"_Emmie-_"

"Radio into base and fill Griffin." I cut over her, unable to keep my anger and annoyance from seeping into my tone. I _will not_ be babied. Especially not in front of Katniss and Hawthorne. I am every bit as good at my job as he- as _they_ are. "I'd like to know what imbecile cleared this sector, and _how he came to be blind._" And then, when I do find him, I'm going to strangle him. With my teeth.

"_Wilco, out." _And her voice disappears from the channel. I'm keenly aware of three sets of eyes watching me intently. _Alright Undersee, time to show what you're made off_. Though, not literally. I hope. I'm sort of fond of keeping my entrails from becoming _ex_trails to be completely honest.

"I think we should search the area," Katniss says immediately, standing straight with confidence and all those other wonderful things that allow you to lead a revolution. "There's probably about five or so people down there. Which means there's a whole lot of potentially alive refugee's somewhere."

"Or not." Hawthorne overrides her, bluntly. "Catnip, _your_ safety is priority. This whole thing just smacks of an ambush. We head back, put out some flares and call someone else in to do a sweep."

"At which point, anyone out here is likely to be dead." Katniss argues, furiously. "_My_ safety isn't as important as lives. Gale, if we act now, we could get to them in time."

"I'm with Katniss on this." I say, and since I'm actually the one _commanding_ this plane, a point which clearly everyone seems to be forgetting, ultimately it comes down to me. I think. "If there is an ambush, the 'Dar would have picked it up by now."

"Don't give a shit, Princess." Hawthorne replies flatly, and there's real steel and authority behind his words. "As your superior officer Lieutenant Undersee, I'm _ordering_ you to turn this glorified flying tin can around and take us back to base."

Superior officer my pasty white butt. But it figures he'd play the _my badge has more stripes than yours_ game. Typical Hawthorne.

"It's _Flight_ Lieutenant Undersee, actually" I bristle. You have no idea how much a few little letters like 'Flt' make in the army.

"How great for you." He replies indifferently, "Now, why the fuck haven't we turned around yet?"

"The rank system in the air-force differs from that of the army, you asinine pussmonkey." I seethe, hating that he can get me this angry. "That little Flt-" I scoop out my tags and dangle them in front of his nose, "-means that even in the most desolate, backwards, lightless dimension in which pigs fly, up is down and the sky is purple, _you would still not be my superior officer_."

Like I would actually give him the satisfaction of being able to order me around anyway. Idiot. I do however, leave out the fact that I was only promoted about four days ago. It's not relevant anyway. Much.

His eyes narrow at me, trying to find a loophole in this information. He can't obviously, because in addition to there not being one, he's a moron.

"As nice as rubbing Gale's nose in that fact might be," Katiss interrupts, "I'm pretty sure Mockingjay trumps both of you. So it's irrelevant." Her head turns towards Peeta, "What do you think?"

Peeta tilts his head to the side, clearly torn between his desire to save lives and his concern for Katniss. Beside me Hawthorne exhales a long agitated breath and mutters a string of surprisingly creative curses, obviously already figuring what the outcome will be.

And then I realise, as much as Katniss would want to scour the area for other survivors, if Peeta had raised the initial objection and not Hawthorne, we would be half-way home by now. Guess I was totally wrong about their relationship dynamic, ie; the person who wears the pants, isn't actually Katniss.

He turns to me then, "You'll be able to pick up trouble in time to get us out safely?"

"Of course," I reply confidently, "An ambush is an impossibility." Beside me Hawthorne rolls his eyes. Jerkbag. What would he know about the Jay's sensor capabilities? Nothing, that's what.

"Alright." Peeta says, his eyes still on his fiancee, "We'll look for survivors. At the first sign of trouble though, we pull out." It's ironic, that ultimately the decision is his, seeing as of all the people present, Peeta isn't actually enlisted.

"Ha-ha." I taunt, poking Hawthorne in the arm with my finger. Just because I can. His jaw twitches and he looks like he could cheerfully break my hand, along with my neck and all those other finicky things needed for survival. Like my skull and spinal cord.

And to think, they actively hand out firearms to a man with such a sweet and demure temper.

Got to love the military.

…

(Katniss)

"Madge," I sigh, rubbing that spot on my temple when I see her poke and taunt Gale, who looks ready to kill her, my patience worn thin. "This isn't the time for games."

Her head whips around like I've slapped her, her cheeks tinged pink. And ordinarily I would feel bad about undermining her, but this isn't play time. We're not flying supplies back and forth between the secured safe districts, or joking around at the hanger. People are dead. This is real and serious. Especially if Gale suspects an ambush. He's the most experience here. And I trust his instincts.

Madge's eyes are narrowed and she doesn't quite meet my eye as she presses a button on her headset and speaks, "Sphinx, we're going to do a sweep for survivors. Work the immediate area. Push out the 'Dar's range a few clicks, I want to see everything that so much as _breaths_ within a two mile radius, feed it through to my HUD. Out." The screen of her goggles lights up a lime green.

When a few seconds pass and the hovercraft swings around to the right without warning, Madge is the only one who doesn't stumble and clutch at the railing for dear life. Gale swears as he bangs his shoulder painfully against the large barrel of the machine gun at this side. The side of Madge's mouth quirks up smugly until her eye meets mine for the briefest of moments, she flushes and looks away.

…

(Madge)

_That was so much more satisfying that I thought it would be_ I think as I watch Hawthorne sooth his shoulder and regain his balance. I refrain from making this comment aloud, since, _this isn't the time for games. _Involuntarily I meet Katniss's disaproving stare, and immediately I feel guilty. And angry, at myself for being unprofessional and because she's right. This isn't the time for messing around.

"Sorry," I mutter loud enough for them to hear. Hawthorne grunts something monosyllabic that compares me to a female dog and needn't be repeated, which I ignore. _Professional_ Undersee. Keep it professional. The exact opposite of which would be to unclip his safety line, tell Sphinx to do several barrel rolls and count how long it takes for the body to hit the ground.

Peeta smiles at me, in that '_he means well_' way and I guess if Peeta can put up Hawthorne's crap on a daily basis so can I – for the time being. So I curb my initial homicidal impulse and concentrate on the radar screen in the HUD of my goggles as we begin to scan the area, speeding up a knot or two as we do so. Katniss takes up a position at the railing, an ear cocked, listening over the barely disconcernable hum of _the Jay_ and the wind, grey eyes alert and scanning the tree tops. Peeta is doing the same from a position a few meters down. I do too, leaning over and looking down. It's harder for me since the HUD colours everything green and a succession of faint dots and a topographic map of the area flash and blink across my eyes every few seconds. It's a practised skill to be able to keep the HUD from a) distorting my vision of everything not on screen and b) making me puke.

When a bright blip on the outermost edge of my screen catches my attention, I instinctively turn my head to catch it only to find it doesn't reappear. An equipment anomaly most likely. Unintentionally my gaze then lands on Hawthorne, his back to the railing, eyes closed, knuckles pressed firmly to his mouth, as though he's trying not to...

"You're _acrophobic_?" I say, pure disbelief coating my voice. _No way._

His head snaps up, his fist dropping from his mouth. "Don't know what you're talking about Princess."

Sure you don't.

It takes a special kind of idiot to voluntarily jump into a hovercraft, the very basic purpose of which _is that it flies_, when you have a fear of heights. So much so that I find myself being almost reluctantly impressed. Key word there; a_lmost._

"Your debilitating fear of heights is what I'm talking about," I clarify, still in something resembling pure shock. Not only at the sheer idiocy of this, but also because it's him. _Hawthorne _is afraid of heights_. _That his weakness is something so mundane as heights is boggling. That he even has one even more so. Personally I would have thought, if anything, it would be something more along the lines of Kryptonite, or being doused with holy water and shot full of silver bullets while being staked in the heart.

You know, that kind of thing.

"I don't," He snarls taking a step towards me, and now I see the ashy pallor to his skin, the sheen of sweat dampening his hair. "Have a fear of heights. So get it out of your head, princess."

Sure.

…

(Gale)

"Of course you don't," Undersee replies so patronisingly that she's lucky that she doesn't have a dick, because then I'd be obliged to break to her jaw. "You look like you're about to toss your cookies all over the-"

And then her head snaps to the left, those stupid fucking goggles magnifying her eyes so that they appear bug-like and bulging in her head. It's a good look, with a face like that I bet she has hordes of smarmy assholes hounding her. And you know, sarcasm aside, she probably does. She's that type. A fucking tease.

"Sphinx," Undersee mutters, and something in her voice tells me that whatever this is isn't going to be pretty. But then, this kind of shit rarely is. " Are you see what I'm seeing? Yes. Take us over."

"The survivors?" I ask. The way her eyes are hooded and she doesn't reply confirms it. This is not going to be good. Followed by a lurch to the side hard enough to have me vowing to hunt down and _kill_ the crazy son of a bitch who invented flying, and then barely a second later we hear the screams.

…

(Katniss)

We've done a loop of sorts, coming over the tops of tree's that break out into a field, which ends in a set of sheer cliffs and then the ocean. Bellow us is pandemonium. Blurred brown shapes howl and dart after other moving shapes, which I realise after a moment are people. Well, _were _people, for the most part. Bloody claws rip and tear, the mutts out number them five to one, satisfied shrieks and screams mingle to create a symphony of horror around us.

For a timeless moment we all stare in silence. Peeta's face is bone white, contorted in an effort to keep his internal demons inside, his hand on mine and grasping hard enough that I know I will have bruises. Madge makes a strangled whimper, but this time doesn't throw up.

"I'll take this one," Gale jerks his thumb to the gun a few paces from us, his face taking on that expression. The one I've been seeing increasingly more often in the last few months. The one that turns my insides cold. "Catnip you get the other."

"Gale.." I begin. I know, of course, that ultimately there is nothing we can do. And that he is right. We can't rescue the people until we kill the mutts and we can't kill the mutts without killing everything else down there. That doing nothing is crueler than giving them a quick merciful death.

"What?" Madge whirls on us in disbelief, "Katniss, no you can't – there's people down there, you can't-"

"Those people are all dead Princess." Gale overrides her harshly, already moving towards the seat of the gunner.

"Dead people don't _scream_." Peeta tells him, his voice fierce yet broken in a way I have heard only a few times. He releases my hand, using his to go up and press against his eyes, trying to block out whatever horrors Snow has programmed in him that still linger inside his mind. I step into him, soothing with wordless noises as he shudders in my arms.

"It's necessary." I hear Gale say to Madge, "If you were actually capable of doing this job, you would know that."

"It's murder, Captain." Madge snaps lingering on his rank long enough to make it an insult, fixing him with a blazing stare. "And If you had even a _shred _of humanity left, _you_ would know that." He physically flinches at her words, colour rising in his cheeks as though slapped. She goes to say more but cuts herself off, mouth hanging partially open, eyes bulging but focussed on the green screen in front of her eyes.

Myffs voice cracks through the long forgotten radio in my ear, "_You reading this Emmie?_"

To which she replies with a long string of words in a language I don't know. They don't sound like happy words to me. Something is wrong.

"Madge," I begin as Peeta begins to calm, "What is-?"

"Jabberjays planes, a whole squad. Heading right for us." She replies quickly and then adds like an after thought, "Hold onto something. And _don't _let go." And then her attention is elsewhere. "_Sphinx, pull all auxiliary power and throw it into the AT shield, Evade as you see fit. Do NOT engage unless on my ready, Myff douse all external radar communication and.." _

Even as her instructions degenerate into bouts of military jargon that I cannot understand a shimmery translucent shine seems to coat everything and we begin to rise, twist and spin at blinding speeds so that all I can do is hold Peeta and the railing and pray that in the likely event that I let go, the safety line does it's job.

….

(Madge)

I'm sorely regretting my lack of G-suit as Sphinx pulls the Jay out of a quick Pugachev's Cobra, causing us to rise at an almost 120 degree angle, before snapping into a couple of flick rolls at which point I've got tunnel vision so bad that I'm seeing the world though a tiny pinprick hole big enough only to catch the tips of the wing. Mere seconds before Sphinx levels us out straight, something snags on the back of my jacket and pulls me down with incredible force, I feel the safety line go painfully taught around my waist as I slam into the platform. Yes, ouch. In fact, multiple ouches.

My head spins like crazy, disoriented, it takes me a few seconds to respond to Myff when she asks me if I'm still alive.

"Relatively." I gripe as Katniss and Peeta both almost murmur something to the affirmative.I twist and writhe to disentangle whatever has caught my jacket, taking deep breaths to get the blood to return to my head and clear my vision. "Hells teeth," Someone groans from somewhere underneath me as I try to heave myself into an upright position, placing my hand down on something that feels disturbing like...

"_Ah!_ Not- Sweet fuck, watch where you're putting that - I'd like to have kids one day if you don't mind Princess." Oh... _Oh. _God. That's.. Just, Ew. Yanking the appendage away I make a hasty mental note to _never _eat with this hand again.

Pushing myself up I blink and am gratified that I can actually see, and the world is no longer spinning. "Is everyone alright?" I call out.

"You can get these suits dry cleaned right, Madge?" Peeta calls, "Because I think I just shi-"

"We're _fine. _" Katniss calls overriding him firmly, I turn to watch as they disentangle themselves from the railing, each other and their safety lines.

"Did we loose them?_" _I ask, twisting around to see if planes are baring down on us, guns aimed.

"_Somewhat." _Myffs replies in a pained voice, _"They're scanning for us."_

Great. Just flipping great. My words from before not even three minutes ago echo back in my mind keenly '_An ambush is an impossibility._' Could this day possibly get any worse? At which point, because karma is a bitch, this happens;

"Madge I can't – fuck," Hawthorne grips my forearm hard enough to make me squirm, and I note keenly the use of my actual name, "-There's just black and I - _I can't see_." There's real tangible panic in his voice, which unsettles me, though he keeps quiet, possibly in an attempt to have Katniss and Peeta not hear. What he forgets however, is the microphone attached to his ear.

"_What does he mean he can't see?_" Katniss's immediately screeches in my ear. I wince. "_Gale where are you bleeding? When was the last time-_" One of the bonus's of having all this headgear is that I've got the master controls to the radio. I quickly turn down her channel.

Next to me Hawthorne is breathing hard and twitching with barely concealed anxiety. Which is the only reason I don't milk this for what it's worth, that and the fact that any second we could possibly be shot out of the sky. Plus, I've had blackout before. Which is what we call it; loss of vision without loss of conciousness. Not fun...

…

(Gale)

"Calm down, " She begins, which immediately has me fuming. Because I can't fucking see. At all. _I'm blind. _Calm is about as far south of what I am capable of at this moment as you can get. And of course, she didn't mention a word about the fact that possibly, when getting into a hovercraft, you can _loose the ability to see._

"The hell I will," Letting her go I attempt to heave myself into something resembling upright, straining my eyes against the darkness. Fuck. Nothing. Not even a glimmer of light. "I can't _see_,Undersee, I'm-" I feel her hands on my shoulders as she pushes me back down.

"Deep breaths." She soothes, "Just take-"

"I'm fucking blind," I snarl, "Don't tell me to take-"

"You've got blackout," She overrides me in a infuriatingly calm, soft voice. But then she isn't the one who is only seeing darkness at the moment. "Which means that the blood has rushed away from your head. Entirely temporary, just breathe deeply to get your circulation going and you'll be back to your regular vile self, complete with fully functioning eyes in a few seconds."

Every fibre in my being is screaming 'bullshit' but, taking a deep breath, I do what she says.

…

(Madge)

Instead of snarling, insulting me and generally being a pain, Hawthorne takes a couple of comically deep breaths, all tensed up like a coil, jaw twitching, the hallow at the base of his neck thumping with a steady pulse, hair slick and curling with sweat and... at which point, my own observation skills start to creep me out and I look away.

"What happened?" Katniss's voice makes me physically jump. I mean, would it kill these people to announce their presence? Just to save us mere mortals wetting ourselves whenever they turn up unexpectedly. Crouching down next to us, Katniss pushes some sweat matted hair out of Hawthornes eyes to get a look at them. He leans every so slightly into her touch, but, oblivious, she removes her hands from him as she twists to me and demands, "What's wrong with him?"

"More or less everything," I reply automatically, "Would you like an alphabetised list?"

Which is apparently _the wrong _thing to say to Katniss '_can put an arrow in your brain at 600 paces_' Everdeen at a situation like this, if the look she gives me is anything to go by.

Fortunately, I'm saved from being strangled to death by Hawthorne who croaks, "Hey Catnip." As his slightly bloodshot eyes focus on her.

"So it's not permanent then," Peeta says as I pick myself up off the deck, dusting my knee's in the process.

"If only," I grumble, fixing my askew goggles to my face properly, watching as Katniss practically gives Hawthorne the inquisition about his eyesight. Which will be perfectly fine. At my side, Peeta seems pretty at ease with her fussing over another man, I wonder if that ever bothers him. Hawthorne and Katniss. I mean, with everything that happened...

At which point Myff informs me that we've been spotted. And that peculiarly, rather than trying to blast us out of the sky straight away, the Jabberjays want to talk.

…

(Katniss)

"I'm fine Katniss, let me up" Gale grumbles irritably, waving me off. He doesn't both to fix his clothes as he stands, simply checks that his pistol is still in it's holster, his knife tucked into the top of his boot. Eyes flickering over to Madge, the first words out of his mouth, are predictably; "Didn't ever bloody occur to you to mention the possibility of going _blind _when on this glorified flying death-trap did it?

Expecting an equallt juvenile response, I'm surprised when Madge doesn't respond. Her mouth is tight at the corners in worry. Something is wrong.

Behind her, blue curls appear in the door to here. Myff, who pauses to let Peeta clip on her safety line, has two silver helmets with black tinted visors tucked under her hands. Madge smiles gratefully at her, and then at the helmets. Her tense shoulders relax somewhat. "You're a genius."

"I know." Myff bats her glittery eyes out of the corner of my eye I see Myffs hand lightly brush against Madges' hip as she passes, before handing one of the helmets to me and the other to Peeta.

"What are these for?" I ask, turning the thing in my hands.

"Got to hide that pretty face of yours Hon." She replies, tugging on my braid in what could probably be called a playful manner, if in fact, she didn't look like she was undressing me with her eyes. "They can't know you're on here, it'll be the death of us all if they do."

"_They_?" Peeta demands.

"The Jabberjays." Madge says with a pained expression, "They've found us. Don't bother looking-" She then adds, as well all twist around in attempt to see the planes baring down on us, "-They're shielded _and_ using the clouds for cover." She shoots me a reassuring smile, as though I've just broken a teapot in her house and she's telling me not to worry, since it was an old one. "Don't worry Katniss, with our AT shield up they can't get a visual and there's no other way they could know you're on here. The only reason we're not being pelted with pulse blasts and bullets is because, apparently they want to have a chat."

"About what such great weather we're having these days? Or how the price of fish has fucking sky rocketed since four was wiped from the map?" Gale queries calmly, but with an undercurrent of anger. "Because _an ambush is an_ _impossibility, _right Princess_?_"

….

(Madge)

Yes. Okay. So I messed up. It happens.

As prone to over-reaction as ever, Hawthorne glares down at me as though I just murdered his mother and made him watch. However, as much as I'm loathe to admit it even in my mind, he does, sort of, kind of, have a point. So I bite the cutting remark on my tongue and ignore him. It's surprisingly hard to do.

Katniss and Peeta have on the helmets at this point, so I can't gauge their feelings. Although, neither are attempting to kill me – yet, so they can't be that angry...

...probably.

Turning away from them, I tell Sphinx to let the transmission through and then, after a moment or two of white noise, an unfamiliar oily voice that practically oozes down the radio waves is audible to everyone.

"This is Major Hermino Ardon, commander of Squad 3 the 12th wing." The voice is deep, and heavily afflicted with a capitol accent, it is also saturated with the unwarranted self-importance of a true narcissistic prick. "We have your aircraft surrounded. I am hereby ordering you, rebel scum, to disarm and surrender all occupants into capitol custody."

And to this, the only thing I can think to say is;

"You do know, I presume, that your name is Major _Hard on _right?"

"How so very amusing little girl," The Major drawls in all his greasy moustache twirling villainy – well, he _probably_ has a moustache. He sounds like the type. "Now why don't you run along and connect me with your commanding officer and let the adults talk."

"I _am_ the commanding officer." I reply steadily, ignoring Hawthorne's derisive snort, since I've got worse things than his wounded pride to worry about at the moment. Like how I'm going to get everyone out of this in relatively one piece.

" Miss... _Undersee_ isn't it?" It's hard to miss the particularly oily smugness of the Majors voice at my inability to contain my sharp intake of breath. "Well I must compliment you, my dear. It's not often we come across such a determined young woman, lovely too by all accounts. Pray, is that your natural colour? I do so adore blondes."

"The pleasure's all yours," I somehow manage to get out as my insides freeze over. Because he shouldn't know who I am. At all. Even if he could see me, _which he can't_, I have no identifiable marks on me, no insignia, I'm not even wearing my uniform. With the influx of refugee's to the rebels cause, it's inevitable that capitol spies will get in. Which is why on official army documents names are never used, nor are photo's or any physical evidence. Numbers only. I don't even normally fly in '_The Jay'_.

Myff makes an involuntary noise in the back of her throat, and I'm quick enough to catch the panicked look she shoots me before her face smooths over. Hawthorne too, shifts uneasily from foot to foot, his expression dark. I barely have time to squash my own rising sense of foreboding before the Major begins to talk again;

"I'm going to make it simple for you, ma chérie -" Ugh. _Pilots_. I swear it's like you give a man a set of wings and he thinks he's God's gift, "- we'll kill your crew and all others on board, save for yourself; assuming of course, you surrender _Katniss Everdeen_ into our custody, immediately."

Right. Like that's going to happen.

…

(Katniss)

Every muscle in my body immediately is strung taut at the sound of my name. And I could swear, for the briefest moments, I catch the scent of roses on the wind.

To her credit and without missing a beat, Madge replies with the bare faced lie of; "Evergreen _who_?" In a tone of such believable wide eyed innocence that if I hadn't previously known her for years _and_ been standing here myself I'd have been nearly convinced she'd never heard of me too.

Peeta next to me makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and his arm instinctively tightens around my waist, as though he's expecting Snow himself to come swooping out of the sky at any minute to take me out. Frankly; I'd welcome it. When Gale's rifle was stowed in cockpit of this thing, he never goes anywhere without it, my bow and quiver full of Beetee's special arrows were also brought along for the ride. Speaking of which, looking over I see Gale has his gaze trained on us, with dark eyes and an expression that is for once unreadable to me. A moment later he senses my scrutiny and looks away, back to Madge.

"Ever_deen, _you puerile little half-wit,_" _This Major person snaps, and so much for Cherries or whatever it was that he called her just two seconds ago, "Katniss Ever_deen_."

"Never heard of her." Madge dismisses with a completely straight face, even as she looks directly at me. And I think I can actually hear the sound of teeth being gnashed from the other end of the line. "Perhaps you've got the name wrong. I know a Cleatus Aberdeen. Poor man has Scrotal Elephantiasis unfortunately-"

Someone makes a sound in the back of their throat, like a choked down laugh. Gale. Though when I turn to look at him, his face is impassive.

"-Superb singing voice, I'm sure you two will get along swimmi-"

"You have seven minutes to jog your memory." The Major overrides her tangent, clearly seething and barely in control of his rage. "Or compose your Epitaph. Whichever seems to you to be a more worthy use of your last remaining minutes on earth."

"That's beautiful." Madge simpers in faux starry eyed wonder, "Practically Shakespearian, have you ever considered-" And then the signal cuts. She pouts. "-I guess not."

"I think you made a new friend," Peeta comments after a beat of silence, the corners of his lips curved up in amusement. I squeeze his hand.

"It's a gift," Madge shrugs and then to me with troubled eyes says, "He shouldn't know you're here."

"They were tracking us." Gale inputs, scratching the side of his jaw with a faraway look. The one he often gets when designing a new snare or when being consulted by the rebellions tactical division. "Used the survivors as bait, I'd say. Probably had this set up for weeks." This however, doesn't explain how the Capitol got the information that I would be on this plane. _I_ didn't even know until half an hour ago.

"Even so," Myff replies with worry creases in her brows. She looks old. Older than I would have thought she was. "He shouldn't know Emmie. Not by name. Not unless..."

Not unless there are Capitol informants in our midst. It's obvious why -whoever they are- would give me up. The bounty on my head is a fortune. But... Madge_? _

"-Someone _specifically _gave them information about me, I know." She finishes and pinches the bridge of her nose with a sigh. "Sphinx is putting out a distress beacon, 3a is still the closest base. But someone might be passing through. Myff take Peeta below and give him the run over of the sensor contro-"

"Not a chance." Peeta snaps, "I'm not leaving Katniss up here, unprotected." No one points out that Gale, and a hulking great 7mm calibre machine gun firing 500 rounds per minute isn't exactly unprotected.

"Peeta," Madge begins beseechingly, "We can't afford to have an extra person up here for no reason, it's a liability. Katniss will be-"

"Then _I'll_ shoot the damn thing then," He replies, eying the guns. "Katniss can go below where it's safe."And _over my stone cold corpse _will he be doing such a thing. Even if his aim wasn't dismal. However, just as I'm about to voice these thoughts, someone beats me too it.

"No. Cheesy buns, your aim is shit – at _best_." Gale cuts in bluntly, not exactly how I would have put it. But then, tact has never been his strong suit. "Catnip is about the best shot in the country. She's the first person I'd choose to have my back in something like this."

Of course I am. His words are not flattery or an exaggeration. Gale would be the first person I'd choose as well. When it comes right down to it, what difference is there between this and watching out for each other in the woods? Nothing. Well, nothing except bullets, the very real possibility of death and a long not-quite-lethal drop to the ground below us.

"It's not about who _you'd_ choose to have _your_ back" Peeta fires back. I watch him carefully, ready to intervene if necessary since his episodes are so easy to trigger in emotionally demanding situations and it wouldn't be the first time he's attacked Gale. "It's about-"

"Peeta, we don't have time for this," Madge admonishes impatiently, "Do you honestly think Gale is going to let something happen to Katniss?" When this comment is met with silence she continues, "No. Now, please, go below with Myff. I'll be down in a few moments. It will all be fine."

"Forgive me if I'm not completely mollified by that statement coming from you." He replies in the tone that I hate. Because I'd never heard him use it before he came back from the capitol. Destroyed and made half-mad by what they.. what happened to him. What _Snow_ did to him, because of me.

The very thought of it brings a surge of dizzying anger that leaves me disorientated and gripping the hand rail for support.

…

(Madge)

I internally wince at Peeta's tone and words, not only because they are true, but also because they come from him. Nice, blue eyed, ever likeable Peeta Mellark. "And while I'll concede that that maybe a completely valid argument, I really do need you below deck so..." I gesture to the porthole. He doesn't move an inch and w_e really don't have time for this..._

"Peeta," Katniss says in such a soft gentle voice that I have to double check that it's actually her lips moving in sync with the words, "_Please.._."

Like anyone could say no to that. It'd be like kicking puppies... in the face.

Indecision flickers in his eyes. "Katniss-" And he swiftly steps up and kisses her. It's long and sweet and straight out of a romance novel. I sigh and for a moment completely forget who I'm talking too when I whisper, "Isn't that just so-"

"Sickening, " Hawthorne finishes like he's witnessing his parents, naked, sweaty and writhing in passionate love right on the flight deck. "Yeah, couldn't agree more."

Typical.

"- Just don't die." Peeta finishes when he breaks the kiss, leaving Katniss blinking and looking a little dazed (can't really blame her to be honest), "Promise me."

She touches the side of his face and whispers, "Promise."

Am I jealous? Only... a lot. The last guy I went on a date with was highly amused by flatulence, clearly unaware of what the function of a toothbrush is and made me pay for dinner. So not exactly Peeta Mellark by any stretch of the imagination.

Once Peeta's gone, Katniss and Hawthorne both turn to me with eerily similar grim expressions on their faces.

"So," Katniss says, all business. "What are we up against?"

I rub my nose. "Fighters. Seven of them. Gailting guns, simple missiles, trackers maybe."

Hawthorne whistles low. "Seven against one. Don't suppose we can out run them in this rust bucket?"

I let the crack about _The Jay_ slide because, I guess I'm just mature like that in times of crisis. "No. They've got the speed. But we've got the power. We're bigger. They've got nothing that can crack our shields as long as we're smart about it, we can probably fend them off for.., twenty, thirty minutes if need be. All I really need you to do is stop them from getting a close enough to get a shot at taking out the shield until help arrives." _Hopefully..._

"And if it doesn't?" Katniss queries cracking her knuckles and warming her fingers.

"Yeah, I'm assuming there's an-in-the-increasingly-likely-event-that-it-all-go es-to-hell plan." Mr-Glass-Half-Empty adds, looking grave. Which irks me to no end. I mean, would it _kill him_ to for once take an optimistic view of anything? I contemplate it and realise that yes, positiveness of any kind would probably be fatal to him.

…

(Katniss)

"Sure I do." Madge tells him with cheer that is unwarranted considering the situation."We plait your beard and try to pass you off as Katniss. Personally I think it has a reasonable chance of success."

Gale exhales an agitated breath out of his nose, and turns to me,"Well, it's been nice knowing you Catnip."

Not at all in the mood I tell them both to grow up. Which, of course, has both of them sulking like four year olds. "Madge. _Is_ there a back up plan?"

"As a matter of fact yes." She admits, and I can't help but wonder why she didn't just say that in the first place. "Everyone bails out. We self-destruct the Jay and get the fighters in the blast. _All_ of them. Otherwise they'll simply pick you off on the ground."

Surprisingly Gale is about a second quicker than me in seeing the obvious flaw in this. "In order for that to work, someone would still have to be flying-" We both stare at her.

"You can't be serious." He says.

For once there is no petty taunt on her tongue, no joke in her eyes or attempt to play down the situation when she looks at him. "We better get you two into position." Is all she says.

…

(Madge)

Getting them into and used to the guns requires little effort on my part. Hawthorne apparently has a natural gift with anything designed to kill and Katniss is just as adept, peering through the scope and using the switches that make the entire thing revolve with ease. Which is just as well, because we have barely have a minute before our seven are up.

"Normal bullets can't penetrate through the AT shield at full strength," I rattle off as quickly as I can, gesturing to the almost translucent net around the craft. "Likewise bullets can't be fired from inside it, which is why the shield around the guns is at only at partial strength. Bullets _can and will_ hit you if you aren't careful. Fortunately the fighters have to follow the same rules, nor are their shields as strong as ours. So the moments before and after they fire are when they are most vulnerable. When you aren't physically firing adjust your shield strength to full, using this here-" I touch the lever "- I can do it from the cockpit if need be, but this isn't nursery-school, I can't babysit you." All this I manage to get out using one only breath.

Talented? Yes I know.

"You're turning blue, you know that right?" Hawthorne remarks idly, hands ghosting over the trigger and control panel for the gun. "And the function of that is...?" He jerks a thumb to the Pulse Cannon.

"Fires an electromagnetic pulse that briefly short-circuits all electrical equipment within a short radius of detonation." I intone, making my way to the porthole. "It'll probably save our lives. So try not to shoot it."

"_Anything else?" _Katniss asks from across the deck.

"Yes," I reply, unclipping my safety line and stowing it with the four spares. One for each crew member. "Please try not to die. Haymitch will kill me."

"_We'll keep that in mind Lieutenant Sate-the-bleeding-Obvious._" Hawthorne mutters into his mic, adjusting the chair and gun scope to fit his height.

"The comment wasn't really aimed at you." I retort before disappearing below. "So feel free to do all the dying you want." _Assuming of course, you actually can die, _I add in the privacy of my own mind, since all evidence points to the contrary.

"It's a comfort to know I have your permission Princess." Is his reply because he just can't not have the last word.

…

(Katniss)

I'm familiarising myself with the controls as Madge's head disappears into the porthole. Everything is strangely calm, but in a way that is unsettling. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and unease churns in the pit of my stomache knowing that somewhere close by we're being watched. Like in an arena. From my seat on the gunner I can see that the drop down to the forrest below is survivable, if it comes down to it. Which hopefully it won't. Adjusting my scope, movement in my peripheral vision like a grey shimmer catches my eyes before disappearing into cloud cover.

"Gale," I murmur into my mic, "Did you see that?"

"_There's more on my side_." He replies grimly, shifting his gun. "_They're probably-"_

"_Give me Katniss Everdeen_." That same oily voice, so saturated in the capitol accent that it sounds more ludicrous than intimidating is broadcast into our ears. "_And I may let you live little Miss Undersee_."

"_I don't suppose you'll consider surrender_?" Madge queries, and it would be funny, if not for the deadly seriousness in her voice. "_You have my assurance that you and your squad will be treated humanly_."

To this request, mocking laughter is the reply. I can pick out several new voices now. Including the obnoxious high pitched giggling of a woman.

"_I didn't think so_." Madge sighs and the signal goes dead. The large cannon at the front of the platform turns only fractionally to the left, and fires what appears to be a purple cannonball. It streaks across the empty sky and for a second I have to question if whoever shot that is _completely blind_. That is, until the cannonball explodes in a small circle of purple sparks which clears to reveal the nose of a large hover plane bearing down on us, as though appearing in mid air. On either side three more smaller planes unveil themselves. The cannon fires another purple blast which misses the leader of the formation by mere inches and Madge orders us to open fire.

"Gease!" I call out to Gale, in the moment forgetting that he can hear me well enough without shouting, as the planes reel around in a perfect V formation. Immediately he knows what I'm talking about and takes the end of that is furthest while I take the nearer. Opening fire on my target, my first few bullets miss completely because they're faster than I anticipate. Luckily I remember what Madge said about the shield around the gun being weaker just into time to adjust it before metallic death rain down on us. It's an interesting experience, to watch bullets actually hit and flatten against the shield centimetres from my nose.

The planes duck and weave in formation, swooping in on us like birds protecting a nest only to dive away again. As soon as they do, we both open fire. I get lucky this time and manage to target a plane that has just been hit by the blast cannon, the air around it flickers purple and all of my bullets, instead of just the few that manage to get through the shield, hammer into the wing. Fire explodes at different intervals and the thing dovetails down out of my sight. "Nice one!" Gale shouts over to me, forgetting just as I did, about the ear piece. The sound makes me wince. He swings his gun around and targets a plane swerving too close to us, causing smoking to billow out it's tail, it drops out of sight as the others come in for another round.

"Too easy," I tell him as I adjust my shield and he guns down the plane in front of him. Bullets sparking off the shield. "A bit like-" And then I scream out his name as one of the planes, it must have looped back and around, comes at him from the side. Catching us both off guard, Gale has no time to bring his shield up and I stare frozen in horror as I watch my best friend's last milliseconds alive as bullets slam... into thin air above him.

"Didn't know you cared." Gale mutters into the Mic as I try to puzzle out what just happened, Madge's annoyed voice is audible to my ears.

"_Do you know how much paper work I have to fill out if you die?" _She demands irritably. "_A tonne __and more time and effort than I'm willing to spend on you._ SO _PAY ATTENTION." _The last part is yelled loud enough to make both of us wince.

"Yes, Ma'am." He replies without the usual venom, wheeling his gun around and thudding bullets into the plane that nearly took his life until fire sprouts at the tail and wings and it spirals down.

"That, you rat-bastard son of a bitch," He mutters as it goes down, "Is for trying to shoot me." His shield goes up as another one swoops in near us. I pelt it's underside with bullets, but can't seem break the shield. From under the planes nose a purple blast is fired, I'm unable to tear my eyes away as it streaks across the sky and buries itself into the shield. Purple tendrils snake through the air and when they clear I have enough time to catch the plane spiralling away.

"_Hawthorne can you read m_e? H-_Gale? K-_" Madge's voice goes dead in my ear a few seconds before bullets thud undisrupted into the headrest behind me. Missing my cheek by mere inches.

…

(Madge)

"_Hawthorne can you read m_e? H-_Gale? Katniss?_" I practically scream down my mic, panic flooding me as I watch in horror as everything takes a turn for the God-Awful. From the cockpit I have a perfect view as pandemonium breaks out on deck. Bullets slice through our now non-existent shield. I am able to catch a few snippets of Hawthorne and Katniss's voices before their feeds go dead. My ears are filled with emergency tones, warning telling me that apparently of it's own accord, all external power has been cut. Leaving Katniss and Hawthorne with no guns, no shield and nothing but immanent death as company.

"Shit," Myff mutters under her breath, her hands a blur over the dash as she tried to figure out what's going on. "All Auxiliary power has been taken off line. The shield is barely clinging to 10%. There's no way a flimsy little fighter like that should be capable of producing a pulse so strong. I'd love to know how they did it."

"I'm sure Major Hardon would be happy to enlighten you, assuming of course, _he doesn't kill us.._" I reply with a little more heat than strictly necessary, my eyes unblinking as Katniss and Hawthorne take covered under their respective guns. "How long until everything is back online?"

"Eight minutes, maybe."

"Make it five." I snap and then turn to see Peeta already hoisting a quiver full of arrows and a sleek black bow in his hands. He shoves a rifle into my arms. I nearly drop it. Because hey, guns unsettle me. I suspect this has something to do with the fact that they are _harbingers of death_, but you know, that's just me

"Don't go and do something stupid, like getting your ass killed you got me!" I hear Myff call after me as Peeta and I barrel our way down the corridor and out the hatch.

Clambering through the porthole is no mean feet, considering there are bullets pinging off the metal all around me. Plus then there's this gun you know, that I'm holding. Peering out onto the flight deck, it's bedlam. Peeta of course, immediately makes the dash through an air teeming with bullets and somehow, possibly due to divine intervention or a secret pact with Satan, manages to not get himself killed. In the mere seconds it takes for him to wedge himself in next to Katniss, who has at some point gotten rid of her helmet, she's already snatched the bow from his hands, strung it and aims. Looking like some ethereal goddess of war with her braid flying in the wind her, suit gleaming silver and a fierce expression, she steps out from the cover and fires directly at a plane. I want to tell her it's useless. An arrow can't do anything against a fighter – at which point it cuts through the shield like butter, even the double glazed windshield and buries itself in the pilots head. She quickly reloads another arrow and fires it into another plane, it _explodes _against the wing but doesn't take it down.

My world is quickly rearranged into a place where with a simple bow and arrow, a twenty year old woman can take down a fighter plane. But then, this is _Katniss Everdeen_. And I mean, if she can do that then I can do this. Alright. Deep breaths Undersee. And with that I fling myself from the relative safety of inside the porthole and make the dash to the closest gunner. All the while hoping and praying that Hawthorne is still alive – because as I learned back in my short stay as a resident of District 13, Guns and I do not mix. At all.

I'm skidding halfway across the deck when I make the mistake of looking up. At a fighter plane. Heading directly towards me. Which in itself is not quite as unsettling as you'd think, I've known for quite some time it's a likely possibility that I'm going to be killed by a plane. I just thought, you know, I'd be in _mine_ when it happened. Just as I certain I'm about to kick it, someone grabs my arm and yanks me to the side hard enough that I know I'm going to be feeling it for days. Assuming of course, I live that long. Which is looking increasingly unlikely at this point.

"Hello gorgeous," Hawthorne practically purrs, ripping the gun from my hands, and jamming me behind him against the seat of the gunner. "I was talking to the gun." He clarifies at my stare as he cocks the thing and takes aim. Quickly squeezing off a few rounds into a plane as it gets closer. It doesn't do much except cause the thing to swerve away.

"Oh, I know," I reply, rubbing my arm."Just wondering if you two wanted some alone time. I could light some scented candles, spread rose petals on the bed... And _did you have to grab me quite so hard_."

"Look at it this way, you're not dead and now we're even, for the shield thing" Hawthorne growls, reloading against a background of exploding sky as Katniss picks off another plane with her apparently _magic _arrows. "And speaking of shields, what _the fuck _happened to ours?"

"They must have had a blast cannon of their own. Which I would say should be impossible except this guy has pulled off more than a few impossible things today. And we are so _not_ even_." _I grumble examining the red hand-shaped mark on my arm that is definitely going to leave bruises, "_I_ didn't hurt _you_. " At which point, ironically, I notice that the latex of the suit on his bicep is ripped, tendrils of wet redness dribble down his arm.

I stare in frozen panic. Because this is _Gale Hawthorne_. The asshole who dragged me kicking and screaming through a burning district, who saved his entire family _and_ Katniss's not to mention dozens of others, the guy that Trap talks about like he's ten feet tall and can leap tall buildings in a single bound. The very same individual who spent less than a week in District 13 recovering before enlisting. I mean, Hawthorne doesn't even have _feelings_ much less the capacity to actually... bleed.

…

(Gale)

I don't even realise it, until I feel a sharp spike of pain as I'm reloading and Undersee pulls her hand away from my arm, the tips of her fingers wet and red. Ah. "You're bleeding." She says in this faint little voice looking at her fingers like she's never seen blood before.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it." I mutter since it's nothing, the bullet barely clipped me. I ignore the twinge of pain as I bring my rifle up, about to take aim until I hear Katniss calling my name over the sound of ricochetting bullets. '_Cover me_' she mouths, pushing Mellark out in front of her as they haul ass across to us. I'm sending round after round at the remaining two planes, the first one takes the hint, backs off and disappears into the clouds. The second, whose pilot is obviously none too bright gets close enough to send a barrage of bullets directly at them. Mellark somehow manages to twist around, grab Catnip and literally throw her into my arms, while simultaneously lunging forward so the bullets miss him by inches. Slicing through his safety line.

Yeah. I don't know how the gimpy son of a bitch managed it either.

Katniss, with blazing eyes twists away from me and fires two of her explosive tipped arrows in quick succession at the departing plane. The shots are excellent. The blast severs both wings and the thing plummets like a freshly killed bird carcass into the ground. Everything is quiet then, except for the sound of our panting.

Mellark is the first one to break the silence. "You do know you're bleeding right?"

"Yeah," I reply, examining my wound. "I'm just waiting for you to do your knight and shining bit and rip up your shirt for bandages."

"Any excuse to see me naked eh Hawthorne?" He tugs at his suit. "Well, it's your unlucky day. Latex doesn't make good bandages. Madge?"

"I don't care how much you're bleeding, I'm not ripping off my clothes." She sniffs and sticks her nose in the air like the prima-donna princess she is. Good. I'd probably go blind if ever have the misfortune to see her even-half naked... _Again._

"Well I guess Catnip's my last option" I say jokingly, just to rib Mellark. Gimpy prick, see how he likes it. As usual he doesn't seemed phased.

"What Madge said." She replies with a vague wave of her hand. "Wasn't there another one of them?"

"Bastard probably legged it back to whatever disease infested hole he crawled out of." I reply, still examining my arm. Looks like It need stitches. Great.

"No." Undersee says, getting up and staring out in the direction Catnip is. "I don't think so." She continues to stare at the same spot and then her eyes widen. "_Oh._"

"Oh?" Katniss and I begin at the same time, "What do you mean-" And then we both see it, the missing plane and what looks like white fire streaking across the sky with impossible speed directly for us.

I turn to her. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this is not going to be good."

"More or less." Undersee replies crisply as she wedges herself behind Mellark, as though this will save her. "I suggest you hold onto-"

And then everything goes to hell.

The white fires slams into the side of this thing so hard I feel it on my bones. It seems the floor itself is tilting to the side and I'm just quick enough to grab something solid to hold onto as everything moves to fast to see. The safety line around my waste is pulled taught and it fucking hurts like you wouldn't believe. But, right now, I wouldn't trade the thing for the world. Fire billows in part of my vision and small bits of metal fly past me, stinging as they cut into my skin. I close my eyes against the heat and grit my teeth against the pain. And then just like that it seems to stop. Coughing up smoke, I winch open my eyelids and realise that by some miracle we're managed to stay in the air. Grudging, I've got to give silent thanks to the guy flying this. He must be one hell of pilot. I look up, scanning the air for the plane. It's a few hundred yards from us. I'm just in time to catch it being blown out of the air by two other planes, which I'm damn well hoping are on our side.

"Report." I bark out, picking myself up off the floor.

"We're fine." Katniss replies, from somewhere to my left. Curled up against the gunner, Mellark's body laying over hers, shielding her. An option that, honestly didn't even occur to me. Once again proving why he was the right choice. The prick. "Speak for yourself." He groans, "I think I chipped a nail."

Funny.

I wait for the third voice...

...only there isn't one.

"Princess?" I call out, because she's fine. Absolutely fine. Probably just dicking about, trying to piss me off. As she does. "Not funny Undersee."

Still no answer. And no sign of her on the deck either. "_Madge_?"

"You don't think," Katniss begins with a tone of genuine worry in her voice. Like me, she gets to her feet to get a better look around. "I mean, she couldn't have gone over the side."

"No." I reply instantly, "Unconscious most likely. Since she had that damn safety line on.

"Actually-" Mellark begins slowly, and I look over to see what he's holding in his hands. A _non-damaged_ rope. Clipped to his belt, the other side clipped to the ship. The safety line is not his. His was shredded by bullets about two minutes ago. "-She doesn't."

Undersee wasn't wedging herself behind Peeta because she was a coward. She was saving his life.

"Gale." Katniss says holding up a torn scrap of leather. From Undersee's jacket. It must have been caught on the railing before she – I swallow down the rising bile in my throat – before she went over.

…

(Madge)

The first branch doesn't slow me at all. The second, third and fourth sting like hell and by the time I hit the ground the impact is only mild agony. The wind is knocked from my lungs, and for a few heart shocking moments all I do is wheeze and fight for breath. I must black out for a few merciful s seconds. I see my parents, like intangible ghosts fluttering before my eyelids just as I used to see them. Hallucinations. Productions of my old... habbit.

And then suddenly I'm concious again and have worse things to worry about. Like how I'm seeing this new leafy green hell I've been deposited into through the cracked lenses of my now-non functional HUD. Pushing the lenses away from my eyes I find that I am capable of sitting up. Which is a start. It sends my head spinning though and I unwisely use the remainder of my strength to latch onto a tree trunk and pull myself into a sort-of-vertical standing position.

My legs feel like jelly. But I manage it.

Now.. walking. How does that go again? Oh, right, one foot in front of the other. Come on Undersee, you can do this.

Which is how I manage to walk about three meters before dizzyness staggers me and I have to stop to catch my breath. Clutching the tree-trunk for support I occupy the few seconds I spend standing here with thoughts of how this day could possibly get any worse. At which point I feel a wet droplet land on the top of my head. And then another.

Expecting rain, you can imagine my pants wetting surprise when I look up into the snarling blood soaked muzzle of something that definitely wants to kill me. I scream and stumble back into the dirt, crab-walking it backwards until I hit something solid. At my movement the thing scampers downs the tree-trunk like a money, eyes fixed on me. There's only one of them. Thankfully. Which I probably couldn't defend myself against even if I was perfectly healthy. Right now the best I can accomplish is a feeble;

"Nice killer-monkey-abomination?"

Which apparently, is the signal for it to attack.

…

**A/n: **I know it's long, but it seemed weird to have it in two separate parts. I guess this is how I originally pictured it. Anyway, cheers.

- Is.


	9. It's a Dangerous Business

**Animus  
**

_Chapter Seven_

It's a Dangerous Business,

_(walking out your front door_.)

...

(Madge)

You know the old cliche', the one you always hear about someone's life flashing before their eyes as they're about to die. Like your very own mental television replaying all those definitive moments back to you in vivid technicolour, all those things that have come together, mingled and mashed to make you _you _

Total crap. Biggest crock you ever heard.

As my snarly, furry death hurtles towards me I'm not treated to a '_This is your life Margaret Undersee'. _

Admittedly howeveris probably a good thing.

I'd like to say I use my last ounce of herculean strength to rip a sharp branch off a tree and defiantly look the thing right in the eye as I battle it to the death, but I'm no Katniss Everdeen. I'm me. In accordance to which, I spend my last seconds on earth cowering, eyes clenched, screaming and just trying not to wet my pants.

The funny part, I guess, is that my last meaningful words to anyone were '_I don't care how much you're __bleeding, I'm not ripping off my clothes_'. To be frank, I would have liked something slightly more poetic engraved on my tombstone.

Abruptly the snarling stops, replaced instead by a dull wet '_thunk_', and I open my eyes to the sight of the mutt twitching and convulsing on the ground at my feet. A rock, about the size of my palm is firmly embedded in its skull. The thing twitches one last time, defiantly spurts blood and gore over my boots and stills. On the nauseating-smell-o-meter the odour sits somewhere between the stench of festering flesh marinated in horse urine for three weeks and death.

Gagging, I back away and gaze around for my saviour, or soon to be murderer. That's just my kind of luck, to be saved by something just so it can have the pleasure of killing me personally.

The rustle of leaves above has my head snapping up, prepared to face another mutt. Instead, and much to my shock I find myself staring up into a set of luminous almond shaped eyes sunken in a thin filth streaked face that is barely visible under it's crown of snarled golden hair. In one hand, is a sling, made out of what looks like intricately weaved grass. In the other my saviour holds a rock, poised and at the ready. Quite clearly capable of cracking my face open.

In addition to these fearsome qualities, the person to whom I now owe my life, also happens to be an eleven year old girl. No kidding. Twelve at the most.

She stares at me for several impossibly long moments without blinking, completely still. Skittish and hesitant like a cat, feral from lack of care. I don't even dare to breathe at this moment for fear of startling this wild girl. The repercussions of which might be my having to learn to see out of an extra hole in my skull.

As soon as I raise my hands in the universal gesture of d_o-not-shoot_ or _rock _as the case may be, the girl recoils back amongst the thick foliage but doesn't entirely make a run for it. Her amber eyes shine out from between the branches, narrowed with suspicion.

"Uh...Hello." I begin awkwardly, since children are not really my speciality. "Pleased to ..uh...meet you, little.. dirty one."

My comment is met with distrustful silence, and Oh-lay, maybe not the best of starts.

"I'm unarmed." I try again softly, turning in slow movements to displaying my lack of weaponry. "I won't attempt to harm you. Frankly, you're probably more of a danger to me than I am to you."

Once I'm full circle I'm surprised to see the wild girl has crept close. Within half a foot of me actually. In addition to her sling there is a small bag slung around her skinny shoulders, made out of the same weaved grass material. The smock she wears is torn, filthy with dirt and in some places, dried streaks of blood.

"Are you all alone out here?" I trail off cautiously, keeping my hands in the air and trying to look as non threatening as I can. " Were you with the others who were attacked?"

Wordlessly she nods her head, taking slow creeping steps towards me. She moves like a ghost, in soft fluid steps until literally within inches of me. At this distance I can see the small chaotic dots of lice as they crawl over her forehead, the snarled dreadlocks of her hair in which leaves and sticks and even a colourful feather can be seen. _How long has this girl, and presumably the other survivors been out here? _ Under the dirt her skin has a golden glow to it. The kind I can never get because my skin refuses to tan, simply burn.

I'm just genetically blessed like that_._

She's thin though, little more than skin and bones really.

As I'm making these observations, her hands ghost curiously over my belt, up to tug on the fabric of my blouse before roaming skittishly under my jacket which makes me squirm as I clamp down on a bout of giggles. At my movement she jumps back about three steps back, eyes wary.

"Sorry," I tell her in what I hope is a friendly non-threatening tone. "I'm just awfully ticklish."

Another hesitant pause, and then within a blink she's back sticking her hands in my pockets. Pulling out a magenta ribbon, a pen and what looks a coupon for a half-priced beer at Benny's. The pen the girl takes and bends until it snaps, ink pools into her palms like blue blood. I watch in fascination as she puts her stained fingers up to her nose and sniffs, tongue darting out to taste.

"I wouldn't." I warn quickly, "It's going to taste terri-"

Her nose wrinkles and she spits out a glob of blue coloured saliva onto my boots.

"-Ble" I finish, staring at my now blood, ink and spit stained boots. "Lovely. Thank you."

The wild girl ignores this, rubbing her dirty hands on her equally as filthy smock and leaving ink smears. I find myself mentally cataloguing the clothes she'll need. Shirts, pants, under garments. Dresses of course, green would look lovely on her. Socks. Shoes. At least three pairs...

Enchanted, her fingers slide over the silk material of the ribbon, twisting it in her fingers, tugging on it. Leaving inkstains along it's length. I don't think she's ever seen one before.

"You can have that if you like." I say nodding to the ribbon as she begins placing my assorted items back into my pockets. Broken inky pen included. "I've got my own. See." I reach up to pat my hair, all of which has all fallen out of it's tie, to find that my ribbon is dangling somewhere down by my left ear, held in place now by only a single pin. It must look ridiculous.

She gazes up at me with a serious contemplative expression as I rearrange my hair, tying it away from my face. Tucking those annoying bits of hair that are too short to be tied behind my ears.

"Well, that's about the best I can get it." I babble, knowing the she either doesn't understand or doesn't care what I'm talking about. "It's absolutely awful in the summer. The humidity does nothing for me."

As predicted the girl stares blankly. Then reaches up, roughly grabs a bunch of her hair and wraps the ribbon around it. Some of it spills out of the top, almost like a pig tail. If you customarily only had one, and it was in the middle of your head. She pulls her feather out and sticks it in with the ribbon. When she's done she looks up me in an almost questioning way.

"Very pretty." I comment solemnly.

She nods with an expression of utmost seriousness, and then jabs her finger into my chest. Which, I think means, _You too. _ Or possibly, _Watch it buster. I have a rock and I know how to use it._

Both are applicable in this situation.

Then, as though part of some bizarre ritual, from out of the collar of her rough smock she pulls what what appears to be a wooden carving about the length of my pinky finger. It's a crucifix. Intricate in design with details so small and precise I have trouble believing it was carved by human hand. Pulling the rough twine it hangs on over her skinny neck, the girl wordlessly offers it to me in the palm of her hand.

"Oh, no." I say, quite touched by the gesture. "I couldn't possibly. You keep-." She insistently presses the bizarre talisman into my hands. "-Well, if you really insist." I turn it over in my hands, the wood is dark, smooth and polished.

"The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want. He maketh me lie in green pastures." She then intones in this high reedy voice, her tone even and precise in a way that tells me that perhaps she doesn't fully understand what the words mean. "He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea-"

"Though I walk through the shadow of death-" I finish in a hush whisper, staring at her with unabashed fascination. Wondering how it is that this little wild girl came to recite part one of the most taboo books in Panem, verbatim. "-I will fear no evil." She only nods, blinking at me with solemn surprise.

"Who taught you those words?" I demand, placing my hands on her shoulders. She twitches a little at the contact.

And then, before I can press her any more, there's a howl from not far away. Which is joined by about a dozen more blood curdling screeches, the sound of which triggers some ancient fight or flight (which, really, is more like a flight or flight with me) reflex and has cold tingling fear crawling down my spine.

"I don't suppose," I lick my suddenly dry lips as I hear the undergrowth shudder and crash behind us, "I don't suppose they're secretly vegetarian?"

I glance back just in time to see my mysterious new friend give me the familiar '_why do you even bother to open your mouth_ ' look, before gripping my wrist and dragging me into the undergrowth.

As I start to run, it seems that immediately the whole forest is beginning to conspire against me. Gnarled tree roots purposely place themselves under my boots as I trip and stumble blindly through the thick undergrowth that viciously scratches any skin visible. The girl doesn't relinquish my wrist but I can tell I'm slowing her down. Behind us the howling seems to get louder, the thrashing of the undergrowth more threatening. Perhaps on her own she could outrun them, she's and her companions obviously have been surviving out here for days, weeks, months even. But I know I'm not quick enough. Even if I hadn't just fallen out of a _freaking hovercraft_, any worth while skills that I posses are in my hands, not my legs.

And it doesn't help either that my side splits in a searing stitch, that each breath sends spikes of pain into lungs which I swear are trying to crawl out of my throat because I can actually taste them. My head pounds in about three different places and I'm about one more step away from collapsing in total exhaustion. Relief comes though when we burst out of the tree line into a clearing, refreshingly free of things trying to kill me.

It is like something straight out of a fairytale, honeysuckle bushes dot themselves at odd intervals through the lush grass and right in the middle is a giant willow tree with branches that curl over and dip into the waters of a small lake, crystal clear and completely still. I stare open mouthed at the sheer unadulterated perfection and then several things happen at once;

Firstly the girl lets go of my hand and runs for the water, splitting the surface like a bullet and...

…

…

...

...resurfaces for barely a second before going under again, just as the tip of three hovercraft's rise over the canopy of trees.

Before I can even truly register this fact, something hard and snarling slams into my back, throwing me to the ground. Claws rip into the leather of my jacket, which kind of ticks me off, because I _love _this jacket. Twisting around, I manage to somehow get my feet up into the stomach of the mutt, throwing it over my head and into the grass. A feat that in itself would be amazing, if the thing didn't somehow spin in mid air and land, snarling, on all fours.

When they create instruments of death in the Capitol they really go all out don't they?

I manage to lock eyes with it and I know I barely have seconds before it springs at me. All snarling teeth and deathly grace. And here it is. The end. I started life as the mayors daughter in a now basically non-existent district and ended it being devoured by carnivorous monkeys.

It's funny old world really.

At which point my snarling doom explodes in a cloud of blood and ichor. I'm too busy trying to keep down my rising three parts equal hysteria, exhaustion and nausea to even care as a small army of mutts stalk forward, eager to take the place of their dead comrade. I manage somehow to scramble to my feet, only to turn and be staring straight into the steel grey eyes of Gale Hawthorne. The barrel of his rifle pointed directly at me.

I make no effort to move as he pulls the trigger.

…

(Katniss)

Pulling over the line of the tree's we're just in time to see Madge being tackled by a mutt. But through methods beyond my comprehension, she manages to kick the thing off her. Bravery which only buys her time, since in addition to the mutt she's currently facing, there's about fifteen of them advancing on her.

"Can't leave her alone for ten fucking minutes," Gale mutters and is about one second quicker than I am in jumping over the railing of the hovercraft, as soon as his feet hit the ground he's firing. Sliding down the hull I too have already fitted an arrow to my bow. Madge manages to scramble to her feet as Gale takes down the first mutt, her eyes have that wild, flighty look of game caught in a snare as she spots us. The sound of gunshots and the muted squealing of the creatures as they die splits the silence of the meadow as Gale and I fire shot after shot until the last Mutt collapses, my arrow in it's eye.

Her face streaked with blood and dirt, under which are probably bruises Madge sways on the spot and blinks owlishly as we approach her. I do a quick visual to check that there's no body parts missing. She's completely covered in dark oozing blood, so it's impossible to tell how badly she is injured. If at all.

"Amazing." She murmurs with genuine puzzlement. "You didn't shoot me." Her hands ghost over her own body as though checking for bullet holes.

"Yet." Gale replies on reflex, and then puts his arms out to steady her when she stumbles forward into him. "Easy there Princess." He says, "I didn't just save you to have you go ass up and knock yourself into a coma."

I like how he takes the credit. I distinctly remember two people doing the saving.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch the surface of the pond ripple, a dark shadow passing under the water. My hand grips my bow as I carefully slide a precautionary arrow into place. I keep one eye on whatever it is in that lake and don't alert either Gale or Madge, since this is the first moderately civil conversation I've personally witnessed them both participate in.

I don't want to ruin the moment.

"I'd never thought I'd actually say this," She mumbles woozily as she slumps into Gale's chest, her nose buried into his sternum. "But I'm almost glad to see you."

In my peripheral vision, I continue to watch the shadow, possibly of a mutt that we missed. Can these mutts swim? I don't know. The possible mutt disappears into a patch of thick reeds.

"_Almost_." Gale replies dryly. Pushing her back so he can see her face, examining a dark bruise on her forehead. Her eyes flicker and droop as she struggles not to close them. "Don't go sleeping," He warns sternly, using his thumb to rub a smear of blood from under a scratch on her cheek. "You might have a concussion."

"Your _face _is a concussion." She retorts with surprising venom, though the remark would have a bit more sting if in fact she didn't look like she's about to vomit all over his shoes. "And don't touch me." She shoves his hands away feebly. "I don't need _your_ help."

The rustling in the reeds becomes louder. I have to wonder how neither of them can hear it.

"Fall on your ass then Princess." Gale snarls, pulling away from her completely. And Madge, now without anyone to lean on, wobbles unsteadily on her feet. "I haven't had a good laugh in a while."

"Try looking in the mirror." She shoots back, at the same time as I side step a rock about the size of my fist flying directly towards me, my loaded bow comes up about half a second later.

"Katniss!_" _ A hand darts out with to knock wrist just as I release. "Don't-" The movements jerks my arrow just slightly off course, it plunges into the reeds about half a meter off when I had been aiming. "-shoot." Madge finishes, staring in horror.

…

(Madge)

"Madge what-" Katniss begins, clear irritation in her voice.

"_Quiet_." I snap, and a part of me recoils because I've only ever spoken that harshly to Katniss once before. And it ended with me leaving District 13 and not returning for a year. Her eyes narrow, and she visibly tenses up at my words.

"Just... hush for a moment." I add in a much softer tone. Hawthorne looks like he wants to kill me – more so than usual. I ignore them and listen with baited breath for a rustle of the reeds, any sound to signal life. Admittedly this is hard to do when blood is pounding in your ears. I see rather than hear her, the slight rustle and then a head of wet blonde hair poking itself out of the foliage. I exhale a long sigh of relief. In one hand the girl holds an arrow, in the other her loaded sling. I beckon and she approaches us cautiously.

Katniss makes a small noise of surprise in the back of her throat. She knows how close she came to killing the girl.

"And that would be..?" Hawthorne inquires mildly as the girl approaches.

"Currently," I reply with a half-smile, "My new best friend."

The girl stops at my side and eyes Katniss and Hawthorne with wide eyes. She knows them, by sight at least.

"It's okay." I sooth, as her little hand tightens on the grip of her sling. "This is my friend. You don't want to hurt her. Her name is Katniss. Katniss Everdeen." With an almost shy smile, my mystery girl taps the arrow in the direction of Katniss, as though confirming where it came from.

"You know of her don't you?" I ask, and the girl nods her head vigorously. Which narrows the period in which she could have been out here to anywhere within the last five or so years.

Well, it's a start.

Her eyes turn to Hawthorne then, she drops the arrow and uses her finger to point to him. Not threateningly exactly, but with curiosity. "Now he-" I tell her, shaking my head to clear my increasingly fuzzy vision, "-Is what we call a moron. Feel free to hurt him all you like. He especially likes it if you kick him right in the n-"

"Madge." Katniss interrupts, she sounds tired. Which, in turn makes me realise how utterly spent I am, and suddenly all the aches, cuts and bruises come to the forefront of my self-awareness.

"Sorry." I say and then look towards the hovercrafts, I see the familiar gleaming red hull of _The Baron_, Griffin's pride and joy. Next to the Baron, _Nighthound, _all sleek dark metal and curved must have flown it, I hope he isn't too drunk. Which means that the whole squad has come to my rescue. Some great mission commander I turned out to be.

" I guess we should-" Suddenly I have a hard time remembering anything over the dull throbbing of my skull. "We- we should be-" Something, there's something important and we should be doing it.

"Madge?" The girl with the braid – Katniss? - she asks me, only her voice echoes and she appears to have a semi-translucent twin.

"It's nothing," I murmur, pushing away the hands that try to steady me. Large hands that I don't want help from... because.. because...there's a reason, I know there is, a good one too.

"No. _Don't,_ I said... I just... It's my head, just give me a moment and I'll be-" The last thing I see before everything turns to swirling darkness is the ground rushing up to meet me.

…

(Katniss)

It's only on reflex that Gale catches her, I can tell by the look of surprise on his face. Which then turns into resigned disgust when Madge groans a little and then proceeds to vomit all over his boots.

"Typical," Gale observes grimly yet lets her empty the remaining contents of her stomach all over him. "Just fucking typical." The little girl, the one who I nearly- she silently scuttles forward to hold Madge's hair while she retches. "Don't supposed you'll carry her?" Gale asks her dispassionately. The girl shakes her head silently and continues to stroke Madge's hair.

"Madge..?" I venture, only to met by a unintelligible groan. Clearly in no shape to walk. Still alive though.

As Gale picks her up, her head lolls on his shoulder, like a rag doll. Madge shifts in his grip and sighs something incoherent. "Daja- fucking- vu." He mutters under his breath as we trek back to the hovercrafts.

Rory is the first one to us, bounding down from the collection of planes."What the-? _Madge._" His voice escalates several octaves when he sees his brother carrying her seemingly lifeless, bloody corpse. "What _the hell_ did you do to her?" He snaps, immediately rounding on Gale, who I am surprised to see, takes this quite well. "Three years worth of pent up hate." He replies with a completely straight face. "Here," he says as he dumps Madge unceremoniously into Rory's arms, "It's your problem."

Sympathetic Gale.

"You're a fucking prick sometimes, you know that?" Rory retorts flatly after spending a few moments ascertaining the fact that Madge is not actually dead. He rubs a stain of mutt gore from her cheek, pushes her hair from her eyes.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth kid?" Gale drawls smoothly, his face a mask. That one that even I can't penetrate, the one developed as a result three years of bloody conflict. The old Gale, back before everything changed, before the games, the war, he would have never talked to Rory this way. Sometimes... Sometimes I have trouble remembering if that person ever really existed, or if, perhaps the old Gale was someone I imagined all along.

"Oh, that's cute Gale." Rory snaps, hoisting Madge up bridal style, his movements are markedly more gentle than his brother. Her eyes flutter under their lids. "Real fucking cute." He pauses and his eyes widen when a small hand snakes into the pockets on his pants and pulls out a worn notebook attached via a piece of string to a pencil stub. "What the f-" He looks down, startled at Madge's wild little friend. She eyes him distrustfully. It takes him a moment to swallow down the word, "-fudge? Who is this?"

"At the moment," I tell him as we trudge past, "you know about as much as we do."

Gale snorts, but says nothing as he follows. His face smoulders. I know any remark now would be unwelcome so I venture no comment. Rory ignores him completely, keeping up a strain of low questions to Madge, who answers them in a muffled voice as best she can.

Peeta wheels Griffin down a ramp from a sleek, dangerous looking red plane as we approach. Myff wonders down after them. A rough cigar dangles from the Commanders lip, twin clouds of noxious smoke trail from his nostrils.

"Love, don't get me wrong here," He growls on the exhale, "But on the _stupid-reckless-shit-to-pull-O-meter_ that ranked about an eight." He sounds less like a commanding officer and more like a mildly concerned uncle.

Madge who is now able to at least form semi-coherent sentences, if not walk, defends herself." So, next time," She argues, "I'll just leave Peeta dangling off the side of the ship shall I?" She attempts to twist out of Rory's grip and to set herself on two feet. He doesn't allow it and mutters something about her not being as strong as she thinks she is.

"Agreed." Peeta himself replies, and then with seriousness. "Don't ever do that again, crazy girl." The phrase holds warm affection. Gale's eyes snap up to look at him, briefly I wonder if this is because the phrase '_crazy girl_' has stimulated some hazily opiate soaked memory of that snowy night, of his whipping.

"A simple thank you would suffice," Madge mutters petulantly, from her position in Rory's arms as she lets him carry her into the plane. She pokes his arm. "I'm probably going to go to sleep now, if anyone asks, I'm dead." Rory chucks as he sets her down next to him on the seats as everyone takes their places, Peeta next to me, next to the girl, next to Rory. Griffin moves himself from his chair to the pilots seat. How a man in a wheelchair can fly a plane I don't know, I don't dwell on it. Madge's eyes droop almost immediately and Gale takes a seat opposite us all. I watch him watch Rory who smooths a bit of hair and grime from Madge's exhausted sleep relaxed face.

"What?" Rory asks sharply, on the defensive, when he looks up to catch his brother watching.

"Nothing." Gale replies raising an eyebrow. His resemblance to Hazelle is poinant and singular in this moment, Rory I know can see it too and flushes before looking away.

The rest of the flight is more or less silent.

…

A/n: I know, I know. Finally an update, rejoice! I only hope it was worth the wait and the horrendous gramma and spelling don't make you want to reach through the internets and murder me. :) Friends.

Anyways, this is part of a double update extravaganza, I felt bad since a lot of people have been keen on an update, so have two. The next chapter is an interlude. So I hope you enjoy both. Not much to say about this chapter, a new character, weird bible quoting girl from the woods. Oh, but a few spoilers for you if you want them; There'll be some mouth-to-mouth action in some upcoming chapters, Gale will nearly kill Madge, plus we're going to be seeing the rest of the Hawthornes soon. Hazelle is going to fuck shit up. I love her.

Anyways, hope you enjoy and review! I love and cherish all of your feedback. Special shoutouts go to; _Estrunk_ – your reviews are awesome man, make me smile. _Anon reviewer Alison_ – Haha, cool. I live around brisvagus. Pretty gross, but yeah. Nice to know I have some aussie readers and – _Starrkeeper_ - your reviews were an unexpected bit of sunshine in my day, I checked back and there they were. So thanks.

Anyways,

Ciao.


	10. Interlude: Beast

_Disclaimer;_ Drug references, swearing, bad proof reading abound.

**Animus  
**

_Interlude;_

Because the Beast is just my Fear

..

[The one year anniversary of the Bombing of Twelve]

(Madge)

_"Madge? Madge? You in there sweetheart? Come on, look at me kid."_

Like floating down a never ending river of acid and never drowning, everything simply flows past, dissolves and becomes nothing. You can cry and scream into the air, they can't hear you here.

_"She's not responding. What the hell did she take?"_

Sometimes I think I was born wrong. An empty shell, all flesh on the outside, nothing on the inside.

_"Take your pick, hon. Took a little bit of everything. Been proper fucked up for days."_

Just ash, twisted with bitter hauntings. Memories. I live for the past. Fire even, the heat. I don't feel it anymore. Sometimes - sometimes like this I can pretend it didn't happen at all.

_"Right. I'll just wait and see if she dies sometime during the night then. Pass me that bottle." _

And then nothingness.

…

_[Some hours later]_

_(Madge)_

The water feels like tingling needle pricks in my pores. Spluttering into an up right position is quite a job for my unenthusiastic muscles. My brain tingles and seems to sag down through my intestines into the floorboards. My eyes find the open window, stars shine bleakly through overcast night clouds.

"It's night?" The statement curls itself into a question as it leaves my numb lips. I can already feel my body coming down, the creeping nausea, heaving migraines. It's not going to be fun.

"Well observed Sweetheart," A familiar voice, like gravel being trampled on, makes itself known from the corner of the room. Haymitch Abernathy looks, for all intents and purposes exactly the same as ever. Dozing in my chair, eating what appears to be my food and drinking what appears to be my wine. Nearly a year's separation has done nothing for the deep misery lines ingrained in his face, the bags under his eyes or his personal grooming. I could have last seen him yesterday. A bucket, empty of water is next to him.

Thanks Haymitch.

Rubbing my itching, watery nose, I close my eyes and pinch myself. Hard. Perhaps this is a highly realistic hallucination.

"No," Possibly hallucinatory Haymitch informs me, almost gleefully. Wrapping his mouth around the bottle and taking a long pull. He smacks his lips obnoxiously, wine stains dot his collar. "I'm real as can be Sweetheart." The smell confirms it, the air tastes like stale alcohol and misery.

"You'll forgive me then," I begin tiredly, just as my brain begins to cycle through the implications of Haymitch seeking me out. "If I don't leap for joy just yet."

"I'm crushed." He drawls. I roll my eyes and finger comb the snarled bits of hair and glitter from my scalp; Myff's parties are never without their fair share of glitter. Palming my eyes, I have to ask; "What is the time?"

"Five past two."

"Day?"

"Wednesday, morning." My eyes widen. "Lose a few days did you Sweetheart?" He eyes the roll of fabric, old needles and vials laying on the table next to me. "Can't Imagine why."

To make matters worse, Myffs pipe, empty sachets filled with just a speckle of green herbs and cubes of Euphoria, half an ounce worth actually, of A-grade morphling and trackerjacker venom blend are stacked next to it. It's a contraband buffet. The rest of the room is a mass of my walk-on wardrobe and other worldly possessions. My bed; a tangle of sweat soaked sheets. The room is thick with the festering smell of human habitation. I fight down the urge to hide the needle marks on my elbow, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Come to judge have you?" I snap to cover this impulse and because a lecture about this from Haymitch, _bottle-surgically attached-to-his-hand-since-birth-_Abernathy is not what I'm willing to tolerate right now.

"Surprised is all." He grunts back after another quick swig. He shrugs. "Each to their own."

My eyebrows raise. "And that's all the sagely wisdom of the great Haymitch Abernathy is it? I expected a bit more hypocrisy to be frank." Anger prickles in me, annoyance, that he's not scolding me. But then, admittedly, that prickling feeling at the back of my spine could be because of the after effects of the Euphoria.

Again he shrugs, "I'm not your father sweetheart." Why this statement hurts I have no idea, it should be a source of relief that someone like Abernathy, of all people, isn't my father. "You're old enough to do what you want." The last word is leered somewhat. Creep.

"Why are you here then?" I ask, suspicion, paranoia rise up in me. Concern as well. It must be urgent. The only reason he would be is for... Katniss. "When I left, you said no one could find me." My tone is more then slightly accusatory.

"As far as the Mockingjay is concerned you're still MIA sweetheart, if that's what you're worried about." He shrugs, and then a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. " And incase it has escaped your notice, I'm not noone."

Oh yes, special secret agent Abernathy, advisor to the leaders of the rebellion. I'm in awe. "Well, you'll excuse me if I don't bow." I deadpan while motioning to the door, "Bad back you see." The beginnings of a three-hour vomit-fest curl in my stomach.

His mouth twists into something like a smile. "We got Him back for Her." I don't need to ask who He and Her are. Once a mentor, always a mentor it seems. The Hunger games own you or life.

"So I heard." I reply as expressionlessly as I can. Inwardly though, my heart plummets at the thought of the horrors Peeta Mellark would have suffered whilst in the tyrannical fist of Snow.

"As you would," He combats my indifference with his own, flicking non-existent lint from his reasonably filthy shirt. "Being a pilot now and all." The mockery in his tone is evident and unappreciated.

"That's right," I reply, raising my head from my hands. "I'm a pilot." _Or near enough anyway_, I add in the privacy of my own mind. "And, believe it or not, I have my own problems."

"Yeah," He agrees sardonically, but I can see the anger building up around it. "Your problem is that they've fucked him up good. _She's_ not doing much better mind you, or the cousin." He adds as an afterthought. As though I'd care.

"The old triangle reunited. Just like old times." Sarcasm more or less drips from my mouth. "What _Fun_."

"Your being a brat, Sweetheart." He informs me around the head of the wine bottle.

_Says the man with the temperament of a thirteen year old girl_, I keep this comment to myself however, since starting an argument with Abernathy is not something high on my to-do list when I'm on a come down. "No Haymitch. I'm out. Done." I say with ringing finality as I gesture once again for him to leave. "The mess is yours, you clean it up."

Haymitch regards me for several long moments, I force myself to not squirm under this scrutiny, there is a moment of pregnant uncertainty, the precursor to an argument, one which I am not prepared to participate in if I can help it. He backslides however and makes towards the door, dignified an exit as he can, his parting shot to me is thus;

"You can no more walk away from this than I can _Princess_-" I flinch at the nickname, which I'll admit may have less to with the biting venom Haymitch injects into the word than that it reminds me of someone else. "-You started this, I did what _you_ wanted. Remember the pin, sweetheart. Paying off the debt, I'll keep your friend alive because I couldn't save _her_." I lower my eyes when he looks to me for conformation of this truth. "This mess started with you." He steps into the hall, "_You_ clean it up." The effect of this grand speech is somewhat lost on a wave of second hand wine fumes, ones of the distinctly carcinogenic variety.

He pauses at the threshold of my door, watching my internal conflict. Peeta Mellark. The little boy who I used to filch pencils from my fathers study for, who in return would draw me the little sparrows that nested in the sparse apple tree in his backyard. I used to tell people he was my brother. Indecision flickers within me. I bite my lip. "What do you need me to do?"

"Is that a yes?"

"It's just a question Haymitch."

He polishes off the rest of the wine before he speaks. "There was a machine, it was designed to warp his memories of 12, the games - not without it's fair share of excruciating amounts of pain mind you – doesn't even believe his family is dead. He tried to kill _her _Madge, got the cousin a fair good one too. Scalpel to the arm."

I say nothing. Deep, deep down I can't picture Peeta Mellark, ever smiling blue eyed Peeta harming even a hair on Katniss's head. Licking dry, chapped lips I force indifference in my tone. "And you think - I'm what? Going to somehow improve the situation with my sunny disposition and cheer?"

Irritation twitches the corner of his mouth. "They – the headfucks of thirteen – think, perhaps there could be hope if they had someone connected with his past, his childhood, something before the games..." He trails off and eyes me speculatively while I put together exactly what it is he wants me to do. "... There's no one else left, Princess. Just you."

Again with the nickname. I stop from telling him to quit calling me that. It would just give him incentive.

"So I'm to go back to being trapped underground to play _this is your life with Peeta Mellark _while Katniss and her lapdog look on. Has she even made her choice?" I inquires sharply. "Or am I to help put him back together only so she can shred him to pieces? I suppose I'll have to get him to play happy families for the camera too, right? What a good pro-pro that would make, don't you think Haymitch? Peeta Mallark walking forlornly over the graves of his friends, of his family while the whole nation watches. Really pull at the heartstrings won't it?" Throughout my miniature freak out session my voice has risen several octaves. Impassively Haymitch looks on at the spectacle of my stark raving lunacy.

"How likely?" I ask, exhaling after a long moment through my nose. "If I come with out right now, how likely will it be that it fixes him?"

"They say about thirteen percent." He answers casually. Figures. "Best case scenario."

"So, hopeless then."

"More or less," He salutes me sardonically with the bottle. "You're the closest thing to a miracle we have Princess."

Our eyes meet and hold.

"Nice seeing you Haymitch." I say tiredly when I shut the door in his face.

….

[One Month later]

(Katniss)

They say he can't see me, but I'd swear that those blue eyes bore into mine even through the one sided perspex pane. "No change today?" I ask Haymitch who is quietly pretending to doze in a chair specifically put in this room for that purpose. Being quite important to the rebellion now (not least of which, as the only person who can 'deal' with the Mockingjay, as Plutarch diplomatically put it), Haymitch has quite a bit of authority within district 13. Behind us a Petit, pale nurse injects a sedative into Peeta's arm, he fights her but the restraints keep him immobalized, in the silence I watch as his eyes drop closed.

"None," Haymitch replies without cracking an eye open. The bottle next to his chair is three-quarters empty and it's barely midday (although down in the depths of thirteen, who knows for sure?). When catching the barely perceptible sag in my expression he adds, "But who knows Sweetheart, maybe he is improving. He hasn't tried to kill anyone today."

"It's still only morning." Gale puts in darkly and with little helpfulness, eyeing the finger marks on my neck just as I catch the slight swelling of his eye.

"Thanks for that." I reply, pressing my forehead into the perspex, not taking my eyes of the form strapped to the bed. My breath condenses on the pane. Adjusting the focus of my sight I watch Gale's reflection shift as he fiddles with the bandage on his arm. "Sorry Catnip," He sighs and runs his good hand through his limp hair, the dark shadow under his eyes darkens. "It's just -it's been weeks. Everyday; no change. I think you have to accept that maybe- No look, Katniss. Maybe he's not going to-." Upon seeing my expression morph, Gale falls silent. I can see the act of stopping himself from saying more is doing little to improve his frustration. This topic of conversation has been the source of many arguments between us over the last month.

"I know." I murmur quietly after long moments, sliding my finger down the wet stickiness of my breath on the pane. Other droplets condense around the chasm my finger has made and slide down with it. Shifting movement from behind and I feel heat on my skin, Gale moves to my side and looks in. "I'm sorry." He murmurs, placing his hand on the small of my back. I move away from his touch, disguising this as a motion to step closer to Haymitch, who face is twisted in amusement. Because of course, who else would take comfort in my misery. "So, what are we going to do?" I ask sourly.

"Yeah Katniss, what are _we_ going to do?" Gale asks, frustrated, placing heavy emphasis on the word 'we'.

"Give it about half an hour." Haymitch replies lazily, checking his watch and then going back to sleep. By Gale's expression it is apparent that he is not talking about Peeta's treatment. I am saved from answering though, by the ding and hydraulic hiss of the elevator at the end of the hallway. Without opening his eyes, Haymitch smirks. I don't really know what about however, since the only people who disembark are military personal and a gaggle of nurses. Petit bodies dressed in white, most are quite young, probably all in Prim's class. Gale spares them a glance as they go past, a line of blushing cheeks and giggles ensue. He smirks to himself for a moment, which slides off his face and is replaced briefly by an expression I don't know. A cross between shock and something else- Confusion? Dismay perhap. - something I don't know. I have to twist to follow his gaze, over my shoulder. At the elevator door my gaze first lands on Prim, looking especially pretty in her white, trim, nurse's uniform, which she washes, drys and irons with painstaking care after every shift. She walks with a blonde woman, a pilot I think from what I can see of her. The grey mockingjay colours of the rebellions fledgling airforce, a motley military jacket shortened at the waist, dark leather boots, large capitol style reflective sunglasses that obscure almost the entirety of the her face. Wavy hair that is tied back with a …

"Katniss," Prim says with warmth when she gets to us, hugging me as she smiles to Gale and Haymitch. It is a testament to the overall power of my little sister that neither, no matter how foul a mood they are in, hesitate to smile back. "Little bird." Haymitch grins at her, a nickname that has somehow stuck within the inhabitants of thirteen. Prim beams and lets Gale pull her into a hug. Haymitch's eyes shift to the figure behind her. "You're early." He grunts, but with satisfaction. "Expected you sometime this afternoon. Tomorrow maybe."

"I know." Says Madge as she removes the sunglasses from her face, shaking her fringe into neatness. For a moment her eyes slide to the room beyond the glass, where Peeta lays, sedated and secured to his bed. She probably takes in the red raw rings around his legs and wrists, the stubble of hair on his head, the line of numbers tattooed on his bare forehead. Removable by means unknown to the specialists here in Thirteen. The drip of Morphling threaded into his arm. Her mouth sets firmly, as though this is just what she expected, before she turns her attention to me, in all the splendour of mockingjay glory. I'm sure I'm substantially lacking in her eyes. Skinnier, with hallowed cheeks, lank unkempt hair. A necklace of faded bruises adorn my collar bone. Tired.

Paradoxically, Madge is almost unrecognisable from the translucent walking corpse she had been in the month following Twelve. There are the obvious differences, the fact, for instance that she has let her hair grow out over the last year, or that the clothes she wears now fit and suit her. There are no bandages on her person at all. But other things also, marked yet subtler differences between this Madge and the Madge from one year ago. Her skin is not chalk white and dry, but has a healthy glow. Her cheeks have a tinge of pink in them and there is no dark shadow under her eyes, no haunted ambience about her person. She fiddles subconsciously with the bottom strands of her hair, twisting them and on her finger I note amongst others, a golden mockingjay ring, a reproduction of my- of _our_ pin. Such items are common now, exported from secret underground collectors in the Capitol.

"Hello," Madge hedges with awkward formality, tucking her glasses into the buttons on her cotton blouse. Dog-tags jingle below her collar. A badge on her pocket catches the harsh florescent light of the underground. Wings with the name _Ct Officer Undersee_ engraved on them.

"Madge was just telling me about the situation in four," Prim begins, trying to spark a conversation before the tension gets too high. "She says the hospital they have there is really very excellent, isn't that right?"

Chewing her lip Madge nods, "Yes. The Doctors there – well, if given the choice most of us would go to four." Us? Who exactly is us? Clearly she is in the military now. Of course, I wonder exactly how – since to enlist you must be of age, and Madge is barely yet eighteen. My glance slides to Haymitch who studiously ignores me. He has something to do with this of course, I'd bet my bow on it.

"So that's where you've been then?" I ask, trying to hold back the convulsing emotions that have hit me – anger of course, relief that she's alive, curiosity as to where she has been this past year. "In four."

Dismissive in her mannerisms, she half shrugs. "Partly. I'm stationed in eleven, officially. But we get posted everywhere."

"Except in places where you could be found, right?" I return, releasing some of my anger. You don't just disappear, _in the middle of a wa_r and then not come back for a year. Months ago I had resigned myself to the fact that Madge was probably dead. Gale had been almost certain of it.

"It wasn't like that Katniss." Madge says tiredly. As though she has rehearsed this conversation in her mind for quite a while. Again another half-shrug. "I honestly didn't think you would mind that much."

"Madge you vanished from the face of the earth_ for a year_," I enunciate carefully, stressing the words with hand gestures. "I thought you were _dead_. Of course I cared." We stare at each other as she takes this in, chewing her lip I think to stop herself from crying and then, and I'm not sure who moved first, we're hugging.

"I'm sorry." I hear her say, the words muffled but close and invasive in my ears. "I should have told you."

I imitate her half-shrug as we pull apart, and ignore Haymitch who mutters something like _'How touching'_ under his breath. Madge laughs, it sounds only slightly damp. Teary eyes sharpen though, when her gaze lands on the person behind me.

"What," Inquires Gale with sarcasm, "No reunion hug for me Princess?"

"Perhaps if you showered regularly," Madge replies, looking at him like he is some particularly disgusting insect. "Not trying to be funny, Hawthorne but you look _beyond_ awful."

"Captain Hawthorne actually." He squints at the badge on her chest. "_Cadet_ officer Undersee is it?" He leers at her somewhat. "Customarily you salute a superior officer, Princess."

Her salute is of the one fingered variety. Haymitch snorts, even Prim bites her lip to keep down the giggles. I sigh and rub my nose. No point in intervening.

"Cute." Is Gale's dismissive comment, not moved in the least. "But what I'd like to know is why the hell you choose to come back now, you know, after pulling your little disappearing act so well?"

"Oh." Madge makes a vague hand gesture."Just passing through. I heard you got stabbed. I was just wondering to whom I would send the flowers." Her smile is nasty.

"Well, that would be that lucky individual in there." Gale jerks his thumb to Peeta's room. "He's missed you Princess."

Madge shoots him a dirty look as she peers into the room with disinfectant white tiles and walls. To the figure in the bed, the rapid pulse of his chest as he breathes quickly, fighting the anesthesia he is under. She steps up and traps a finger sharply on the perspex. "I didn't think-" She begins, but starts again. "-Well, I mean. I know, of course I know how horrible it would have been. But I didn't think _this_ – it's, it's _beyond."_ She turns to me with a grimace. "They say I might be able to help him. You know, being the only other one of us left."

_Us;_ the merchants. Gale and I share a glance. In a way the socio-economical distinctions of District 12 still linger. Deep down, Madge is still the mayors daughter. Peeta; the boy with the bread. And despite the uniform and the mockingjay pin, Gale and I, Haymitch too even, are still from the Seam. Prim, on the other hand, hovers over the boundary, something higher even than Town or Seam.

"So you will then," Haymitch asks unusually insistent, "You'll stay."

At the corners Madge's mouth twitches, a self-deprecating smile. "Yes." She says to the glass, her breath like mine before it fogging up the pane. "I guess I will."

…

A/n; So part 2 of my crazzzzzzeh double update spree. There'll probably be more about Madge's time in thirteen with Peeta and Katniss and the gang. I'm not quite sure if people will get this chapter really. But essentially it's a flashback from the main time line like all the other interludes. Madge has gotten to district 13 after the bombing of twelve, left after some hectic stuff happens and then come back again after a year to help Peeta. Peeta has only been recaptured for a month or so. I guess, sorry if explaining it sounds lame, but I'd just thought I'd get everyone on the same page. :S

Anyways, huge-ass apologies for being MIA for so long, but yeah, school comes first. Plus I'm officially moved out of my parents house for the first time, which is good. Not loving so much student life, being broke all the time sucks. The law school part is interesting though; the not eating part, not so much.

Anyways, my updates might be less frequent now but they will be forthcoming. So story is not dead and don't forget to read and review! Also Madge; you naughty addict you. Crap proofing is crap, I'll fix it later though I swear.

Peace.


	11. Unrequited?

**Note:** Ha, I had a request for some Gale POV, which we haven't had the pleasure of enjoying for a while. Oh, and shirtless Peeta, something which _I wish _I could have the pleasure of enjoying for a while. But so yeah, this chapter is all about the boys. Enjoy.

**Wrong, in all the Right Ways**

_Chapter Eight_

Unrequited...?

...

(Gale)

It's a world of monotone when I jimmy the latch on window in the room they've put me in. The dark light from before dawn doesn't do much to illuminate the room. We've been back from our a_dventure_ about twelve hours, through all of which Undersee has slept. Last I saw, she disappeared into the shower, hobbling down the hall on bruise covered legs, waving away offers of a doctor and muttering something about hopefully dying sometime during the night.

Well, one can only hope.

On the bed next to my lumpy mattress's place on the floor, Rory snores peacefully into the darkness. Well, peacefully for him. Not so much for the rest of – well, the unlucky bastard who happens to be me. It sounds like a herd of fucking pigs have taken a wrong turn and ended up down his nasal cavity.

I suck in a sharp grateful breath as the crisp early morning wind hits me when I pull myself out onto a wide window ledge. My aim is to get drop from this window to one closer to the ground. It's none to easy work, since the ledge is about half the width of my feet and sometimes I really wonder why I go through this shit – but then, it's early. No doubt Katniss is awake. Mellark definitely. The bastard gets up earlier than I do. Bakers. Couldn't risk either hearing me on my way out.

Dropping onto the ledge below me takes climbing skills that I barely have, Katniss would be able to scale this whole building without a second thought. I nearly kill myself just trying to get down to the first story. I manage it though, from here I can safety drop the ground. The window in front of me is large and slightly ajar, with heavy red curtains that are pushed wide to reveal total chaos. A sizable wardrobe vomits an immeasurable amount of clothes onto the floorspace in front of it. I mean, hell, I own four shirts, two pairs of boots, a jacket and a few pairs of pants. That is as wide reaching as my wardrobe room is extravagant in its taste so I assume for a moment that it belongs to blue hair, she seems the kind to sleep at least somewhat naked. This wrongful conclusion is what I draw until the semi-naked form on the bed litterally just below the window, soft pale skin with red blankets tangled strategically around her hips and legs, shifts a little and tangles of her blonde hair are privy to my view.

For a few blank seconds I stare at her and then force myself to look away. Because, great. I'm creeping on naked Undersee while she's asleep. This will be fun to explain if she wakes up. Despite resolving not to linger, I can't help but look for a few moments. Obviously if given the choice, Undersee is no where near the top of my to-see-naked-list, but breasts are breasts and the fact that she's pretty well put together is a fact I can't really dispute in the rare moments when I'm truthful to myself. Not that she's my type, but I'm sure plenty of other guys - not me - would find her, you know, attractive and that. Well, right up until the point where she starts talking anyway. Her eyebrows are knitted together as she slumbers, her shoulders and arms are a patchwork of dark-yellow bruises and superficial cuts, one arm is thrown behind her head, bunched into her pillow and reveals a slight shadow of hair under her arm, which I am thankful for, something not-liable to have me thinking _certain thoughts_ about this situation. Madge whimpers something and turns to clutch at her pillow, completely cutting off the show. I'm now staring at the mutilated patch of her shoulder, skin like winter cream melted with terrible scars, all illuminated in the dawn morning gloom. Which is probably the one thing I can relate to Undersee about.

I'm not exactly undamaged goods myself. I can still remember what it smelt like that night. Her flesh; as it burned.

Which is a bit more than your average kind of fucked up. She shivers against the cold pre-dawn air of her open window and pulls her blankets closer, the raised bumps on her skins make her look like a freshly plucked wildgoose. With cheer I push it completely open to let more cold air in. It's petty, but right now and considering all the bullshit she has put me through in the last twenty four hours, highly satisfying.

I startle then, when my eyes land on what I had thought was a pile of old clothes at the foot of her bed. Almond-shaped eyes stare unblinkingly at me from under a nest of patterned fabric. In which, curled up almost like a guard dog, is the girl, who no-one knows anything about yet. i know she has a cot of her own erected in a spare room of her own until they figure out what to do with her, but I guess I'm not the only person creeping around Undersee's tonight.

Like I would with Posy I press my finger to my lips in the universal gesture of '_lets not tell anyone about this, ever?_'. She nods and copies my gesture. Good girl. I then drop from her window to the ground, biting down some harsh laguage as the impact jars my kneecaps. Other than that, and discounting the little hiccup of seeing Undersee's breasts, a flawlessly executed plan.

Well, that is until I catch Mellark saluting me with a mug of steaming - hot chocolate probably, with marshmallows, to soothe the pain of his womanly cycle– from the Kitchen window a little further down from me. I return his gesture with a one fingered one of my own. His shoulders shake in laughter. Prick. On his collarbone, obscured completely had he been wearing a shirt, is a faint dark buise, the kind usually indicative of a lovebite. Turning away, I sling a leather bag – Rory's hunting satchel probably, - over my shoulder and head out to a large woodland outside the boundary of this place. I don't look back, but no doubt Mellark watches me the whole time.

It takes me little to no time to get to the woodland and even less to find Rory's snare line. It's actually not a bad effort. The wire is probably a bit loose, and it would possibly have caught more than the measly wood rat had it been placed a bit more securely into the trail, you wouldn't bother to eat the rat. Not now. Possibly once I would have cooked it up, a convenient snack in between hunting real game. As it is, I disentangle the small corpse, cut off a bit off a sliver of the meat to use when I reset the snare and then -

"Anyone ever tell you not to mess with someone else's traps?" A voice from behind me says suddenly, and apparently Rory is talking to me again. I don't turn or acknowledge the little creeper immediately. Granted I didn't hear him coming, but I suspected. After all, who was it that he learnt that trick from?

"Yeah." I say, resetting the wire. "_I _was the one who told _you_ that." I toss him the limp rat. "Breakfast."

Rory plucks the thing from mid air and examines it critically. "Damn. This all?" Immediately he gets his knife out to skin and gut it properly. Waste not, and all that.

"More or less." I reply, going to rub the blood off my hands and onto my pants, but then reconsidering the action, as Ma's phantom nagging rings in my ears about how hard it is to get blood out of clothes. I wipe them on my shirt instead. It's old-ish.

"Nice." Rory comments. "Ma would be proud."

"Eat shit." I return with the usual verve. And then, " I think we need to have a chat."

I can practically see him biting down a groan. "Really don't think we do Gale." He replies evasively.

"Come on Roaring Lion," I say, digging up an old childhood nickname. "What the hell are you even doing here?"

Looking perplexed for a second, his reply is. "Setting the snares." I shake my head. The kid always did well at school, I was quietly nursing the hope of get him into a apprenticeship in town, you know, back in 12. So he wouldn't be in the mines. But then there are times like these.

"I meant _here_, numbskull." I enunciate slowly, inwardly shaking my head. Sometimes, I swear, you'd look through one of his ears and have a unperturbed view out the other side. "What's the plan here? You going back to thirteen any time soon. You know, with your_ family_. Prim near cried her eyes out for a week after you left."

And yeah, I hope he feels guilty. Watching Prim cry is like watching butterfly's having their wings pulled off, one by one. Not the most heinous of crimes, but no one can feel happy being a part to it.

"First off _Ma_," Rory begins, as he rounds on me. To my credit, I don't laugh when he puts his hands on his hips. " It wouldn't kill you to cease being a total dick for a few seconds and have something vaguely resembling sympathy. I mean, no wonder Madge thinks-"

Of course he would bring _her_ into it. His new bum-chum.

"Whatever Undersee thinks about me, or _anything at all_ for that matter, is irrelevant." I snap, "The girl is out of her fucking mind. Stark Raving lunacy is a state of rational bliss to which she can never aspire. Fuck Rory. Her hobbies include trying to kill herself and anyone within a four meter radius of her at least once a week."

"You're foaming a little at the mouth, you do realise that right?" Rory points out, hiding a grin.

"Ha-ha. Funny." I gripe, wiping my mouth with my sleeve none the less. "I just pity the poor guy who gets shackled to the nutjob is all I'm saying."

"I don't know," Rory says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "She not that bad really. Once you get to know her... Actually she's kind of-"

"A venomous bitch." I supply, "Yeah, trust me. I know." At which point I note the slight flush on his cheeks, the reproachful look he shoots me. Disbelief twists in my gut at the conclusion I draw. I hold up a hand and rub my other over the bristles on my cheek. "Don't - please, _don't_ tell me; you think you're love with her?"

His blush deepens and his voice cracks and up several octaves. "No!" Thankfully. "Well-"

_Hells teeth._ She's like lice, gets into everywhere. Or a particularly persistent disease, and destroys.

"Please tell me you're joking?" I question as a last resort, trying to keep calm. When all I want to do is go find Undersee and wring her pale little neck. She's small, I'd probably only have to use one hand. "Just up and left Prim for Undersee. Are you off your fucking nut? Prim's, smart, caring, funny, so beautiful it's a pain sometimes and-"

"Well, if she's so great." Rory snipes, partially under his breath, "Why don't you marry her?"

"Mature Kid." I tell him stone faced. " What are we... Twelve years old?" Not amused by the thought at all, even if it was in jest.

"Yeah," He says shuddering. "Sorry, didn't really think about it before I said it. And no, I didn't leave Prim. Couldn't have left her if I tried, we weren't exactly..." He makes some sort of obscure hand gesture, and starts pacing. The dead foliage crackling under his boots is loud enough to warn game in the immediate vicinity of our presents.

"- And anyway, there was some Doctor, back in 13, she was really impressed with him. Wouldn't shut up about the guy... and I mean,... she's _Prim_. You know? And I'm just.." He spreads his hands in a wordless gesture that I understand all to well. The Everdeen girls really take their toll on your self-worth. Again he rubs the back of his head. "And then Madge-" A sharp look in my direction, to check probably that I'm not going to go on a tangent about her again. I refrain, for now. "I mean – you have eyes Gale, you can't tell me you've once never looked. Ever." His eyes take on a glassy faraway quality. "Sometimes she does stuff, you know? And she doesn't even realise how it makes you want to just-"

"Wouldn't touch her with a ten foot sanitized pole." I interrupt instantly, despite you know, peering through her bedroom window not half and hour ago, even as another memory comes to mind.

"_Pretty Dress" And it is too, crisp, clean and pretty. Curvedd in all the right places. But then, of course she would. Being well fed and not having to take out tresserea for starving children will do that for you. The collar of her dress is low cut, well, lower cut than anything Catnip would wear. Displaying delicate collar bones and skin. White, softer and paler than Catnips, like cream which I had only ever had once, with Dad, on a birthday. Following the eyeline of the most interesting pasts bring us to the Pin, real gold ,worth more than anything I could afford – ever. It would be beyond Katnips means too, even with her mothers chest of dresses and trinkets._

"_Well," The Mayors Daughter says, pretty lips pursed in annoyance as she replies. "If I end up going to the capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?"_

Moral to the story being, that yes, I'm not fucking blind, so yeah, maybe I have looked once or twice. Sue me. But acting on any half-cocked drunken impulse on my part would be _beyond_ not worth it, a fact which is not really the point anyway, since guys like me and Rory may as well not exist to girls like Undersee. Which clearly the little idiot is either unaware of or blissfully ignoring.

"Right. I guess you're more into... you know, brunettes." Rory replies, with an almost pitying look. "Well, as to Madge," He shrugs, "She beautiful and the only advice I can give you that might chance your mind is to get her to eat some strawberries. The noises she makes...it's like getting a phantom handjob under the table."

"You know," I begin mildly, walking over to reset the closet empty snare, inwardly shuddering though because I didn't need to hear that. Nor do I ever need it repeated to me again. "All I got from what you just said, is that you get your jollies from watching Undersee eat fruit. Information which, little brother, is probably best kept off the public record."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever Gale."

A short pause as he retrieves the catch from the last snare a good few meters away. He comes back with a relatively decent sized rabbit. I busy myself with getting a fire ready, kindling and everything. Somewhat out of practice – this kind of thing is why they invented the enlisted man - it takes me a little longer to get a fire lit. Rory picks up on this fact and grins to himself as he sets about preparing our furry meal.

To wipe that smug shit eating grin off his face, I ask, Undersee's all or it then? Already planning the wedding is she?"

As predicted the smile slides right off his mug and into the dirt. "No..." He peels back the rabbit skin with particular verve. "Well, I'm going have to wait a few years aren't I? You know, before I can-"

"Make your move?" I snigger into the flames.

"Well, yeah. I guess." He replies looking uncomfortable, "Plus, by that time, if the war is still going I should have enough credits for a bit of decent farming land. I was talking to this guy up in eleven and he reckons-"

Credits, the biggest boon the rebellion has to offer. The Rebel council is banking on the fact that after they, _hopefully_, win the war the districts will be liberated and there'll suddenly be be all this free land knocking about. They get the cities of course, but, from what I understand, everything else is fair game.

So, to boost moral and keep people focussed on The Cause, every enlisted regardless of ran, gets the same amount of credits for the same amount of service. The longer you serve the more credits you get, then, theoretically the more land you can buy. You can trade the bastards in for leave if you have too, or pretty much anything else really. Credits are a universally accepted currency, since everyone has them. Desperate folk even gamble them away for booze or good- if not relatively clean - company. I've used most of my credits up a few months ago, almost had a solid three years of service. I, _theoretically_ now own almost all of the woods around 12, the land itself was cheap as piss since you can't do much with it and most people, even now, stay the hell away from home. Not the most appealing of places, Panems largest Mass grave. Last time I was there the soot and dust from the fire and coal has started to solidify somewhat after the rain to create this sort of gray concrete in most places. Bodies still trapped within. Pleasant. But still...

Twelve; that's where I'm heading after this war is over. That, or an early grave.

Of course, credits and all the benefits attached to them sound lovely, assuming we win, which is by no means guaranteed. A few bits of official looking paper with my name and the title deed on it means sweet fuck all when I can be the king of my very own 3 by 4 execution cell. There's a small fortune to the lucky bastard to bring me in, dead or alive. Of course, the bounty for Katniss, Cheesy Buns and even Haymitch is higher. But still, you know you're doing something right when the President has personally threatened your life, not once, but twice within the last decade.

"-Wouldn't even need much, see," I hear Rory continue when I realise he's still speaking. "Because I would just plough my bit for a year or two, make some money and buy some more land." The excitement in his voice rises at the thought. It's good to see that he has a plan. Farming is pretty respectable, a side up from illegally poaching in the woods anyway. Dad would be proud.

He turns his eyes to me with eagerness, to see what I think about it. It occurs to me briefly that I should probably start sprouting some sappy speech about brotherhood and always being there for one another. But I'm no Peeta Mellark, so my response to him is; "Alright then. You hungry? The rabbit is nearly done."

"Yeah, sure." Rory sighs audibly. "Dibs on the leg."

...

A/n: Cliché' I know, having Rory crush on Madge.. but I figure, it's not uncommon for younger men to become infatuated with slightly older women. Madge, you unintentional cougar, you. I find the pairing a bit freaky myself and no, nothing serious is going to happen between them. Just thought I'd add some more potential drama into the story... _because it hasn't got enough of that or anything_ /sarcasm.

Like I said, I know there's a lot of kind of cliché stuff happening, but I guess at this point in the story I want it to be known that Gale doesn't hate Madge, I didn't know if I was getting this across with the arguing and stuff. But he sort of thinks of her as this really fucking annoying person that, unfortunately along with his Family and the Everdeens to some extent, he has to take care of. And also to illustrate, I guess, that he has very little romantic interest in her – maybe some subconscious attraction going on, that he's honest enough to admit - but that's it.

Madge on the other hand... well, yeah, she hates him. A lot.

And yeah, did I steal the 'wintery cream' description from the Princess Bride. Not that I'm claiming Madge is as beautiful as Buttercup, or Gale as poetic as Wesley. In my opinion though, Gale would have liked that book as a child. Madge definitely did.

Pinched the _Roaring Lion_ line from Sollarysis and her ah-maz-ing story, which I have plugged a lot in past chapters, but that's just because it's awesome. _Rebel like Yo_u. If you haven't read it... hop to it people, chop, chop. :)

Anyways, it's 4:30 in the morning I've got to proofread (haha, not really.) and I'm off to have a coffee and write an ILAC about some intentional tort scenarios.

Fun..

Peace, and reviews.

-Is.


	12. Interlude: Sleep when I'm dead

**Animus  
**

Interlude:

_Sleep when I'm dead_

_(Four weeks after the bombing of twelve)_

_..._

(Gale)

The recoil of the rifle reverberates through my shoulder just as the sound reverberates through my ears. Not exactly pleasant, but something I can definitely withstand, all things considered.

"Not too bad there, Soldier Hawthorne." Sarge begrudgingly compliments when the targets are winched in, mine reveals a cluster of holes around the heart plus a lucky head-shot through the eyes. All in all, not too bad. Guns are not dissimilar from bows in some aspects.

"Room for improvement." I reply, looking down at the slugs embedded into the wall behind the targets, missed shots. "I was thinking of staying behind and getting in a few more hours of-"

"The only time there isn't room for improvement, Soldier Hawthorne, is when you're dead" Sarge grunts over me, slabbing the flimsy cardboard cut out into my hands, I don't know why, for a souvenir maybe? "Besides you need to get outta here more, Kid. Enjoy yourself." He then slaps my back enough that I feel it in my lungs and puts me off kilter for a few seconds. "I'll do that," I manage to choke out.

"Let me give you some advice Kid, one old soldier to another." I lean in, not too far mind, Sarge is an authority unto himself, known for his unorthodox training methods, mostly he gets away with it because he's one hell of a soldier, could shoot the freckles off your ass, but he doesn't exactly smell like roses nor any other type of flower, really. We're close enough that I can see flecks of the 'beef' stew that they served for lunch today in the level 3 mess hall.

"Fuck a lot of dames, kid." He whispers as though departing the meaning of the universe. Sagely wisdom. Right. "You're young, you can pull all the good young stuff, you know, get in there before all the important bits start to head south." He mimes this action, dropping his hands to hang below his knee's. From here he pull his signatory red cigar from his pocket, he doesn't light it, just chews the end. "You gotta girl Hawthorne?"

Not really, I shrug. There's one girl, obviously, but she's in no shape to do... Well., anything. This other one owes me a favour, but she's slowly going... batshit crazy, I suspect. Plus, she hates me. Alot. Probably for the best, considering. Besides, she's not looking too pretty and soft these days. Misery with legs and a mouth isn't what I'd call all that attractive. But then, Catnip isn't much better either.

I divulge none of this, but he gets it, almost everyone here knows some sort of garbled version of my love life. It's not a fantastic feeling. "Well, trot yourself down to kitchens. You gotta get a bird good with food." He winks, shifting the cigar in his mouth. He points a meaty finger at me. "Beauty is temporary, trust me on this one Kid."

"Right." I reply sceptically instead, and then at the raising of his thick scratchy eyebrows, correct myself with a crisp salute and, "I mean, Yes Sir!"

"Good lad," He grins, "Now, get your scrawny ass out of here." He pushes me towards the door.

"But-"

"Solder Hawthorne, I said _Dis_missed!"

Yeah. Alright. I get it.

After cleaning and replacing my gear, I've got nothing to do. All the kids are in some sort of permanent schooling during the day. After visiting Mrs E in the hospital wing, the comminicuff they've given me vibrates. The unfamiliar sensation, at first, scares the hell out of me. And then I spend a few moments fiddling with all the damn buttons, for such a small thing there's so many buttons. The phrase '_Katniss therapee is ovr Gale_'. On my request Vick Programmed Katniss's schedule into the thing, give the kid a book and he's stumped, but he's a wiz with stuff like this. I can never remember how to get the damn thing to turn off though and so spend the next few moments trying to figure it out. In the end machine wins out over man and I end up ripping the thing off my wrist and stuffing it into my pocket, still vibrating. An interesting experience.

The mental health wards are located on the same level as the largest of District 13's hospital wings. It's a sterile white place, with patronising posters on every wall, sprouting bullshit like, '_The thirteen steps of grieving_.' or '_Depressed? Book your appointment now!_" in bold writing against gaudy colours, as though this will make the message they are trying to convey less miserable.

The waiting room is empty with the exception of the raven haired receptionist who is always happy to see me, and a small figure, her legs folded under her on the hard plastic chairs, blonde hair in greasy curls, as though she hasn't properly washed it in a while. She bends over and seems very intent on something I can't see. She doesn't look up when I take the seat next to her. The receptionist tries to catch my eye, I will go talk to her but for a few moments I watch Undersee's nimble fingers fiddle with that appears to be a thick piece of rough twine, her wrist bones stick out grotesquely.

Similar to Sarge, Madge has apparently forgotten the purpose of a bath. I'll admit it, I'm not the most hygienic guy in the world, but I try to get myself under some water with some soap at least once every two, three maybe four days.

"Where's Katniss?" I ask, well, actually I have to ask it twice, since she doesn't hear me the first time.

"Having fun with the rest of the glue sniffers." Madge replies indifferently, I can't drag my eyes away from her fingers as she smooths out the twine, folding it around itself. The movements are like liquid, her dexterous fingers are long and without blemishes or marks. Musicians hands, I guess. I curl my own scarred hands into my lap, next to Madge I feel like I've got limp sausages attached to my palms.

"Yeah?" I persist, sitting forward to catch more of her movements. Hands like that, on any other girl... "What are they doing in there this time?"

"Tying knots." She answers, bored, as I begin to catch what it is she is intent on making with her string. "They kicked me out."

"Shocking." I say, and it isn't. It's a fifty-fifty chance these days if Madge is going to be out here when I arrive. She wouldn't even bother to turn up if Katniss didn't make her. "What'd you get booted for this time?"

"I don't know." Madge replies, dropping the small noose she has made out of her twine into a pile next to her. There are several others already made. What is she going to do with them? Hang mice. I have no idea. She's crazy.

"Right." I say, because honestly, I don't know what to say to her unless she's insulting me or doing something else vaguely self-destructive. From there, I move over to the pretty receptionist, who is better conversation anyway. If only slightly.

We've passed over the scintillating topic of her hair colour, which is obviously not natural, and are slowly getting onto the topic of dinner when Madge, seemingly bored with her noose making, idly wanders over, the receptionist watches her warily. Like you watch a pack of wild-dogs, preferably from high up in a tree. Unfortunately for - Dianna? Daniella, I don't know, I'm not that great with names and it's a little late to ask her now - the only thing between them is a flimsy chip-wood desk.

Madge says nothing though, even through the pause in which we both wait for her too, her fingers ghost over the stationery, testing the edge of the paper clips by pricking herself with them, Dianna (Deena?) tries to address her, but is ignored. Madges hand grasps a pair of scissors, which she seems to find utterly fascinating, until they are snatched from her hands.

"_You_ aren't allowed to have those." The receptionist says putting them in her desk, and even I catch the snippy superiority in her voice. Madge looks up at her for a moment, her head tilted to the side like a child observing a dead thing for the first time, she does this until – Dayle? - looks sufficiently uncomfortable and keeps glancing to me for help. Which I probably won't give unless Undersee jumps her.

Which is a possibility. She's done it before.

Instead, and with deliberate care, Madge moves her hand to knock the poor girl's still luke warm coffee all down her tight short little grey dress. "Woopsies." She says in monotone. Predictably the woman screeches like her arms have been sliced off. "_Crazy little bitch_." I think I hear her mutter under her breath after she excuses herself to me and sways on high heels off to the rest room, I think she's actually crying a little. That could be the make up clumping her lashes together though, I don't know.

"Amused?" I ask Madge, as she walks around and seats herself at D- _Hell, give it up already Hawthorne_ – at the receptionists chair.

"I will be." She replies, and then immediately her fingers fly over the keyboard like a blur, she doesn't even need to look when hitting the keys. But then I guess, fancy shit like this isn't all that new to her. The jarring movement of her hands is startling and the light from the screen casts a demented glow on her features, highlighting the insomniac bruises under her eyes and her hollow cheeks. Her mouth curves progressively upwards which each click of the mouse. Not a smile exactly, just unsettling. I make no move to try and stop whatever the hell she's going to do to this girl, it _probably_ won't be that heinous.

Her fingers slip into the desk to pull out what appears to be a diamond ring, a wedding ring, she slips it onto her finger and examines it closely – ah, well... I've never seen that before, it's the type of thing you look out for - before going for the phone normally used for interdepartmental calls. She hits the speaker button, assumingly for my benefit, and dials a number.

"_This better be important, Melly you know have to get up early tomorrow_" A tired male voice answers grumpily

"Who is this?," Madge demands sharply, in a tone completely opposite to her own quiet dry mumbling,

"_Who is this?_"

"This is the _wife _of the man who just been caught having_ sex_ with a receptionist, that's who, I'd like to speak to Melony-" Melony? Damn. "-_now_."

"Melony is at work." He's on the defensive, but I can heard the doubt in his voice.

"Are you _sure_ about that?" Undersee questions, and then promptly hangs up. She pockets the ring and looks up at me defiantly. "It's a zirconia anyway."

"You need to get a hobby or something." I tell her, as she rearranges the chair, computer and whatever else is necessarily to make it look like she was never there. "This ruining lives shit can't be healthy."

She shrugs, her work apparently being done and goes back to continue making her nooses.

Crazy girl.

Needless to say chatting to the pretty receptionist looses its charm after this, even with a wet crotch, so when she returns to her computer I prattle some excuse and end up back on the seat next to Madge. The next few moments are spent eavesdropping as Melony tearfully confesses to her husband that she has been cheating on him all along.

"Good hunch." I say, nudging Undersee with my shoulder. It doesn't escape my attention that she inches herself away from me as much as her seat will allow.

"Elementary really." Madge replies quietly, tying off her sixth and last mini-noose. "She was interested in _you_, after all." She makes a show of glancing at the ample space between us. "And don't touch me please." She says this to me three times a day, I swear, you accidentally brush her arm and she acts like you're going to rape her. Don't know what she's worried about, I can't think of one guy who is really into the whole 'walking corpse' look she's sporting these days.

I don't bother to tell her this, since that's when Katniss's group therapy session files into the waiting room. Katniss, for her part, looks like she's going to kill someone. More so then usual. Odair walks quietly behind her, looking as always like all the worlds misery rests on his shoulders. He waves to Madge before exiting, she blinks at him and smiles which is the Madge equivalent of a sloppy kiss goodbye. One ratty pale girl with choppy hair, a straight jacket, two attendants on each side, and ankle cuffs on both feet hisses venomously at Undersee as she is frogmarched past. Madge holds up one of her nooses and blows a kiss. The hissing girl lunges with a guttural snarl, only to be restrained.

"Making new friends?" I query under my breath. Again Undersee shrugs. It's fucking irritating, like she can't even be bothered sparing words for you anymore.

"Gale." Katniss greets, still looking pale, fragile and a little worse for wear. Her hands clutch at the insides of her elbows, her left pinching the soft skin, as though this is the only thing tethering her to the here and now. Her expression becomes accusatory. "You could have stuck it out with me, for once."

Madge glances at the receptionist, mascara tears streak her face, her colleges are comforting her. "But we were having,_ so much fun_."

Katniss follows her gaze. "Alright just, at least... _pretend_ to try Madge.." She doesn't want to know what happened, I can tell. "Is dinner served yet?"

Retrieving the still vibrating communicuff from my pocket I inform her that it has. Katniss looks at the spastic thing twitching in my hand with disdain.

"You should just give it back Gale." She points out with infallible Katniss logic, who owns nothing without it directly benefiting her survival, as we leave the waiting room and head for the elevator. Undersee trails a few paces behind us, fiddling with her newly aquired ring, she probably snatched the scissors too. "You have no idea how to use it." Catnip continues.

I pull the still vibrating cuff out of her reach. "But it's mine." So what if I can't use the blasted thing? Vick gets his kicks out of fiddling with it every night. Katniss exhales an irritated breath and says no more on the subject. A part of me wants her to argue, because that's what's it has come too with me, anything, even anger, beats nothing at all.

The elevator ride from 3 to 6 is long enough that to pass it without conversation becomes uncomfortable. "Hope Ol' Sae is helping for dinner tonight," I say to Katniss, hoping to spark up some sort of conversation. Even if it is shitty small talk. I don't want to admit it, but talking with Katniss is never as effortless as it used to be. As predicted, she makes some non-committal noise in the back of her throat and returns to humming listlessly along with the elevator music. All that is now left for me to do is stand here with my malfunctioning communicuff and stew in my own frustration.

Fun...

Added to this is Undersee, who despite her apparently uninterested-in-anything demeanour, rarely misses anything. Especially when it gives her a valid excuse to rip into me. "You're pathetic." She doesn't hesitate to say through a snort and a shake of her head. _No, Madge please, tell us what you really think_. Katniss makes no indication she is aware of the exchange. The dial on the door ticks to 4, only three more levels to go. At which point Undersee thinks it will be entertaining to start smacking her lips and making irritating noises. It's actually like torture. I can see by the way she doesn't glance at me that she is trying to provoke me.

It works.

"How about we play the '_silent_' game for a while?" I all but snarl at her. She does that creepy head tilting thing and then, without warning, deftly snatches the comunicuff from my hand. I let her, since it takes her about three seconds to fix whatever was wrong with it. She mutters '_imbecile_' under her breath as she does so. Over the last month or so, I've gotten used to it.

Predictably she doesn't give it back. Hell, she can fucking have the thing if it will stop her from annoying the crap out of me. As it is, I'll probably find it in some odd place when she's finished with it, like in the most disgusting toilet District 13 has to offer. She'll actively hunt it out too, since aside from her daily hospital and therapy sessions she's got nothing to do, like I said, she'd crazy, that type of stuff amuses her.

The elevator ride from hell culminates in Madge fiddling around with the comminicuff until it emits steady beeping and a mechanical voice informs us that '_Self-destruct will begin in 5-4-3-'_

"In-ter-esting," She comments mildly, holding what is for all intents and purposes now a bomb, in her hands as though it were as harmless as an apple. Pure instinct takes over when I snatch the thing from her, surprised by the heat emanating from it, and force her out of the open doors, followed quickly by a startled Katniss who is never really paying attention these days. Saving all our lives, I chuck the thing behind us into the empty metal death-box. We are privileged to see a few seconds of explosion before the elevator doors snick closed with a '_ding._' It weezes smoke from between the closed doors for several minutes.

"I thought I told you not to touch m-" Madge begins furiously as she rubs her slightly bruised wrist. I don't feel too bad, she's so pale and delicate she bruises like overripe peaches anyway.

"Having fun trying to kill us all you _bloody lunatic_?" I snarl, rounding on her. I have to shove my fists in my pockets to stop from physically shaking her.

"No need to yell." She sniffs, like she's the injured party here. "Or to use vulgarities."

Right. You should hear the things she calls me on a daily basis. I have the distinct feeling I'm lucky not knowing what some of the words mean, this girl has actually gotten me to pick up a dictionary._ That's_ how bad it's getting. I have to take a moments pause here and breathe, because I'm starting to see red. "My _motherfucking_ commnicuff just exploded!" I'd never hit a girl, but _hell's teeth_, I've come close with this one a few times in the last few weeks.

"_Madge_," Katniss interjects, as she usually does, when she feels our arguments are getting too heated. "Apologise." Undersee looks at her like she's the crazy one. Katniss's eye is firm though, since with the possible exception of Abernathy, Katniss is the only person that can make Madge do... well, anything, voluntarily.

I can see by the look on Undersee's face that she's reigning in whatever she was just about to say to me. On Katniss's warning, she changes tact. "I'm sorry I broke your toy," She tells me, with all the sincerity of a spoon, "I'll buy you another for your birthday. I promise."

"How about you just refrain from messing with my stuff in future?" I snap, since a fake apology is about as civil as it's going to get from her.

She shrugs and then with false amicability says, "I guess you want your other things back then." And at which point she proceeds to empty her pant pockets of my swipe card, locker keys, wallet, Katniss's swipe card, my fucking_ tooth_brush, and the Dog-tags I'd thought I'd lost last week. _Which she watched me spend hours bloody looking for, the brat. _

I snatch it all from her grasp and spend a few moments putting it all in my pockets. I go to hand Katniss her card, but Madge snatches from me and greedily stuffs it back in her pockets. Catnip doesn't object so I leave it. "This all Princess?"

"I also put bleach in your shaving cream." She throws over her shoulder as she follows Katniss into the dining hall. "You don't know about that yet because you have awful personal hygiene. I hope they have potatoes." She then comments brightly to Katniss, who nods and hands her one of the plastic tray they make us eat off. She piles it high with the oozey white mess from a packet that passes for Mash potatoes in district 13. From her facial expression, you'd think it was the most delicious stuff in the world. She won't eat it though, I guarantee it.

"Thanks." I gripe, and don't bother pressing the point as we move down the serving line. Loading up my own tray with whatever takes my fancy. The food here isn't fantastic, but it comes in regular quantities and regular intervals so I'm not complaining. Katniss doesn't take notice of it, but most people watch her, and by extension us, as we sit at our table. It's free of course, I've never seen anyone sit here but us and our families. Undersee fiddles with the sleeve of her ill fitting grey tunic, under which the relief of thick bandages can be seen.

Despite her apparent keeness for Potates, Madge doesn't take a bite of her food but plays with it, amusing herself by piling it in center of her tray – another thing about Undersee, she's apparently given up on food. She has her tricks, pushing it around, distracting the people who actually care whether she eats or not with talk until they don't realise she hasn't taken a bite – She does it to Mrs E all the time. The rattling her cutlery makes as she walks it over a mountain of potatoes starts to get on my nerves after a few moments, so my hand reaches out and stops her. My fist covering her smaller one. "Eat it," I order, "Don't play with it."

She goes completely still and doesn't lift her eyes from her plate. "Don't touch me." She says quietly, her hand twitches under mine. I won't - I'm not doing anything wrong or disgusting to her, she's just a fucking child.

"Eat your food then." I return.

"I'm not sure exactly what it is about the phrase '_do, not, touch, me_' that you seem to have a problem with," Madge responds with deceptive calm, "But I'm getting tired of reminding you. So I'm going to tell you one more time, _Don't, touch, me. Ever._"

"Eat, your, food, then." I bite back

Her left hand flies out at my response to claw my face off, I swear she actually sharpens her nails for the purpose, but I'm ready for it and drop my cutlery in order to catch her other fist in mine. To sustain her balance she is forced to lean slightly over the table and her tunic is big enough on her that if I were so inclined I'd have an excellent view down her shirt, but I'm really not, so I don't even bother to look. She's probably aware of it though, if the pink staining her cheeks is anything to go by. Her collar bones are particularly predominate as she breathes deeply. It's repulsive.

We're making a scene I know, everyone in the mess but perhaps Katniss who seems intent on slowly but surely working her way through her meal is watching. I'm _not_ loosing this one to her. No one steps forward to help Undersee, by now those familiar with the mockingjay are devoid of sympathy for her malicious blonde shadow. It's a little impressive that someone so small and fragile can incur so much mass hatred in such a short amount of time. Ma, for example, can't stand her.

"Let me go." Undersee snarls through clenched teeth, trying to pull of her hands from my grasp. I'm obviously stronger than the bratty malnourished wisp so it clearly doesn't work. I could probably break her arm without working up a sweat.

"Eat your fucking food then." I return calmly. "I don't know how accustomed you are to wasting Princess, but when you're living on the generosity of others you don't leave things on your plate."

"What don't_ you_ have it then." She spits back with a tone and expression that I can only describe as venomous. "Save it for your brothers and sister, they need to start catching up on all those missed meals right?" Something must flit over my face because she smiles like the cat that got the canary at my expression.

Sickened, I shove her away from me. "Whatever Princess." I say tiredly, "Do what you want." Because there's no response I have for that comment but true disgust in the person who said it. Which is probably the reaction she wanted anyway.

Well, screw it, she's got her wish. She can put those nooses to good use for all I care.

…

**A/n:** Hectic. I'd never intended to really write an interlude to slip in here, but this is something that came to me this morning. It's one part of two which depict the reason Madge originally left D13. Deservedly so in my humble opinion, what you've seen or will see of 'normal' Madge has got nothing on craaaaazzzzy Madge. I guess the self-destructive behaviour may be overboard but I'd be pretty fucked up too if my entire family died like that.

Well, that's my explanation and I'm stickin' with it. Don't worry, she obviously grows out of it. Sarge also has the distinct pleasure of training Madge for a bit too. Which will be fun.

;] Check my other story on here if you haven't already. Reviews are always, _always_ appreciated.

Oh, I'm thinking of consolidating some chapters, so if you get alerts that aren't actual updates, I apologise.

- Is


	13. A day in the life

**Animus**

_Chapter Nine_

A Day in the Life.

...

(Madge)

I'm woken from an especially delicious, dreamless slumber by someone intent on plucking every singular hair from my arm. When I feel the familiar sensation of prickling pain around the crook of my elbow my hand shoots out reflexively to grab the source of my discomfort. A sharp high gasp ensues and some squirming and then finally, she bites me. Hard.

"Wha-." I gasp out, sitting up and very much awake. It's not fun. I examine at my arm, pink teeth indentations mar the skin. Excellent. Looking down, I find mirrored in the girls face the same reproachful expression on mine.

"How did you get in here?" I groan. She continues to stare with hateful petulance at me. I blink watery eyes against the bright rays of sunlight streaming in through the window, which for some odd reason is thrown open wide. _Peculiar._ The smell of meat being cooked wafts through it and makes my stomach flip with nausea. Cringing away from the window with all it's sunshine and promise of cooked food, I estimate that is it nearing midday and probably time to get up anyway.

...

(Katniss)

Madge tramps into the already entirely too cramped kitchen just as the food is being plated up. The smell makes my stomach squirm with anticipation. Although granted, due to my position as Mockingjay and with Peeta being a baker, we haven't had to suffer through a short winter for years, despite this there's still something about a large platter of food being served up on your table that is synonymous with a sense of satisfaction within me. Gazing at the edible mound it takes me a moment to realise that unconsciously I am doing a quick appraisal of the food; bacon, which back in 12 we almost never had. Eggs. I'd have had to scavenge for half a day alone in order to bring in enough to feed this many people. The meat is familiar though; dog. One that Gale and Rory were fortunate enough to bring one down a few hours ago. Bread for toast I would have had to trade for, not butter, we would have gone without. Soft goat's cheese would work as well. As the meat is being carved Rory proudly claims the dog for his own, but I could tell simply from the clean puncture wound in soft flesh of the neck when they brought it in that this is probably not the case.

To his credit, Gale lets his brother take the glory.

"Morning sunshine. Coffee is in the pot." Myff chirps with sugary cheer as she piles the bacon on the plates. Smudges of grease glisten on her aqua-marine sequin apron. Madge mutters her good mornings to the world at large and then scoots around the food like it carries the plague.

"Still not eating, then." Gale observes as she gets to the steaming coffee pot and pours herself a sizeable amount of what looks like black sludge.

"You have an unhealthy preoccupation with food, has anyone ever told you that?" Madge returns on autopilot, barely sparing him a glance as she holds the cup to her nose and breathes in the fumes.

"Better than an unhealthy disassociation with it." He shoots back, glowering at the mug she is sipping. "Since that generally leads to death. Or hadn't you heard?

Madge rolls her eyes and ignores him, along with everything until the cup is drained. And then she has another one. Peeta also downs the rest of his own cup of the brown bitter liquid. My mother also loves the stuff. Must be a Townie thing.

"Excuse her." Griffin says, wheeling himself closer to the table as a plate is passed his way. "Not all that great in the mornings." He promptly gets distracted as his own plate brimming with food is pushed and stops talking.

"It's nearly midday." Gale, who is of the opinion that every second spent sleeping after the sun has risen is a waste, puts in. Like Griffin though, food is put before him and everything else, even criticising Madge's eating habits is irrelevant. Peeta, Rory and my plates are dished next and we all dive in perhaps not with the same verve as Gale or Griffin, but we're all starving. Myff dishes out the last of the food, a plate for herself and the wild girl. Nothing for Madge, who doesn't mind at all. A few moments of cutlery clattering ensue before;

"_Come lord Jesus, to be our guest. And let this food for us be blessed, and may there be a goodly share-_"

Everyone looks to the little girl, with her hands clasped over her meal and eyes screwed tightly, reverently, shut. She visibly starts when Griffin begins to splutter and cough over his meal. Followed by a clatter as Myff drops an entire pan of eggs to turn at look at her, eyes wide. I am able to ignore the part of me that winces are the waste of good edible food. Gale physically twitches and both he and Peeta catch my eye not for the first time, looking as confused as I feel.

"_On every table everywhere_. " Madge murmurs under Griffins choking. Thumping himself heartily on the chest, his stomach growls once and then stills. Leaning forward, his good eye gleams as he gazes at the girl with such intensity that I don't blame her for shrinking back against Madge.

"Amen." He says, finally, making a fluid crossing gesture over his chest, before then turning back to his lieutenant and adding sternly, "You, explain."

"You now know about as much as I do." She replies, shrugging. "I nearly had a heart attack myself when she said something like it to me."

"Care to enlighten us to what you're all actually talking about?" Peeta inquires mildly, setting down his fork and knife over a finished plate.

Both Griffin and Myff turn to us with surprised expressions. "_For God so loved the world, he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him, shall not perish but have ever lasting life?_ "

At our continuing blank expressions she shakes her head and goes back to fixing up more eggs. "Fucking surreal." She throws over her shoulder. "What did they teach you districts anyway?"

"They had a hard enough time getting the majority of the us literate," Madge answers a little defensively. But then, I guess she has a reason to have some lingering district pride. Her father _was_ Mayor. "Serious philosophical, political or religious debate were beyond the intellectual means of most." She gestures to Gale, a smudge of grease on his chin, bacon gangling from his mouth. "Exhibit A."

An ironic comment, considering the amount of time Gale spent dissecting the motives and actions of the Capitol during his life in Twelve. Without bothering to look up from his plate Gale flips up his fork, speared with his next bacon piece to imitate a obscene finger gesture. He then eats the bacon, glowering.

Peeta and Rory snigger behind their hands, but upon catching Madge's acid gaze fall silent.

"You still haven't explained what's so special about those words." I point out before everyone gets totally distracted. Griffin smirks a little at me, and uses his good hand to fish inside his jacket before pulling out a small, almost inconspicuous book. Leather bound with a dark murky stain on the cover. He tosses to me.

"Here, Mockingjay." I pick up the book and flip through the flimsy delicate pages, columns and columns of text blur before my eyes. "I've nearly been killed over that thing more times then I care to remember."

"A book." Gale states, unimpressed. Plucking the thing from my fingers and looking at the cover sceptically. "What does it do? Explode? Tap-dance across the table?"

"Sometimes when you speak," Madge sniffs with her nose almost comically in the air. "I'm just embarrassed to have to tell people I know you."

"Likewise." He replies dropping the book unceremoniously back to the table. I snatch it from the table and flip open to a random page. "But you didn't answer the question Princess."

"It's _The_ Book." Myff explains before Madge can snap back her retort. She pauses to set down a platter of seconds. Gale jumps on it and so a potential fight is defused. Clever, I'll have to remember it.

"It's... you have no idea how dangerous...Hmm, how to explain.." She taps her chin with a long cracked aqua-marine nail for a moment and then re-continues. "Back home, the Capitol I mean, to even speak passages from it is _High Treason_. Which of course, meant that anyone with vague ideas of rebellion has read it. To own a copy means death, absolutely. The President had the very few books open to public consumption confiscated and burnt decades ago." She shrugs. "Any existing copies do so in secret."

Peeta whistles low. "Why does Snow hate it so much?"

"The book was declared dangerous, not just this one either, others." She explains, scepticism clear in her tone. "A danger to public order. A lot of people were killed in the purges."

"Heh." Griffin grunts, producing what appears to be an old leather pouch filled with a curious type of green tobacco. "I remember those." One handed, he sprinkles it onto a thin sheet of paper and rolls a perfectly round thick cylinder that he promptly jams in his mouth and lights.

"At the table? Really Griffin." Madge sniffs, waving the smoke away from her face, her nose wrinkled with dissatisfaction.

"One of the perks of undertaking the monumental task of keeping you miscreants in line, _Lieutenant_, " Her commander replies with satisfaction, putting particular stress on the word while exhaling lazy clouds of smoke through his nose. "Is that I get to utilise this little thing called dictatorial privilege."

"Hmph." Madge relents, crossing her arms. "Its just not hygenic is it?"

At this point in their discussion a passage from the book catches my eye._ 'The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.' _Which for the benefit of Gale and Peeta I read aloud. Yes. I can see why Snow would not like to have this book open for public consumption.

All the more reason for it to be out there, in my opinion.

"Exactly," Madge says, beaming at me, and then quotes the next line, verbatim. "_Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness-"_

The girl, although originally the topic of this conversation, is all but forgotten until she speaks up in her high reedy voice. "-_For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will __**strike down**__ upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the _Lord_ when I lay my __**vengeanceupon thee**__._"

It's an interesting juxtaposition, to have such ominous words come from the innocent tongue of a child.

"Wonderful breakfast conversation." Peeta mutters under his breath, eyeing the book in my hands with distrust.

"Yes, that's very impressive." Madge tells the girl, smoothing a lock of filthy tangled hair back from her face as she eats. Griffin and Myff exchange a look, but otherwise say nothing. "But it's probably best not to say those words out in public too much. Alright?" The whole scene reminds me of how my mother used to scold me as a child, about the things I would blurt out in the square.

"Right. Well, if it's so illegal, how do you know it then?" Gale asks Madge, with what appears to be genuine albeit slightly hostile curiosity. Admittedly, I'm rather curious myself.

"I can and do read you know." She replies acidly,

"Illegal books?" He pushes.

"If the mood arises." Madge says in a tone that suggests the subject is better left alone, her face closed behind an expressionless mask.

"Right." Gale says, sceptically.

"I propose a general house rule that you don't address me in any way shape or form before 12 A.M on all days that end it 'y'." Madge suggests, dodging this line of questioning and retreating behind her steaming cup of mud.

"Yeah, because talking to you is high on the list of things I enjoy doing." Gale bites out, audibly swallowing a mouthful of food. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and then goes back for yet more seconds. I would too, if I didn't think my stomach would actually explode.

"Then why do you continue to persist?" Madge inquires mildly, draining her cup completely.

"Obstinacy, mostly." Peeta interjects, unsuccessfully hiding his grin. I don't know what exactly he finds so hilarious about Gale and Madge being at each others throats every time their forced to be in the same room as each other for more then three minutes, but it never fails to amuse him.

…

(Madge)

The argument degenerates at this point into Hawthorne's empty threats that Peeta never takes seriously. The two have reached a strange sort of peace over the last few years, but then I guess they had too. Or Katniss made them, which is probably is plausible. After breakfast, Myff delegates out the chore of cleaning the dishes. Her rule of thumb is thus; Those who eat, clean. I don't eat breakfast, therefore I don't clean.

Personally I think it's a great system, of course, the boys always bitch and moan for an age before setting dish to water. Myff is delighting in it this morning though, since she's got a small platoon of people she can bully. Leaving them to it, I crook my finger at the girl who, sensing that probably she doesn't want to be involved in the clean up either, follows me without a word.

"The first thing we're going to have to take care of is that hair." I tell her as I run the water for the tub; a rusty thing with a ring of permanent filth around the rim. The water pipes are exposed along one wall, they are rusted, rattle constantly and drip stale water so much that we've given up cleaning the place of the slick green moss that has started to grow around them. The rebel forces are not exactly known for their five star accommodation.

Leaving the girl to undress herself, I retrieve Myff's and my combined collection of assorted hair products, bath bombs and soap. Upon my return I find the girl, unbelievably skinny and filthy already waiting patiently in the water. She amuses herself by sniffing and testing all of our soaps and scented exfoliants as I wash her hair not once, twice but four times before it is in any condition to be brushed. At one point I'm forced to fetch Hawk's lice killing solution, the smell is repugnant but it definitely does the job. A less dedicated soul would have given up after the second wash and simply hacked the mess from her head.

The next hour is spend brushing. This surprisingly, she endures with a lot more patience that I would, since I break more than one brush in the snarled mess. However, perseverance is key, and finally after much blood, sweat and tears I am able to pull a brush completely through her hair without having it snag. The end result is rather pleasing to say the least. The girl, who refuses to tell, mime or speak her name, and who I have christened for sake of convience, Salm is beautiful. Once tidy, her hair is long, longer than I would have suspected and hangs just shorter then her elbows, thick, it is a river of cascading ringlet curls.

Her skin is an almond colour, which compliments her truly golden hair. Her features, under all that dirt, blood and hair are seemly, almost doll like in their near perfection, but for a slight case of buck tooth which she'll probably grow out of. There's not much we can do about the itchy red scabs on her legs however and it'll take her a few weeks to gain the weight necessary to make her look healthy, not to mention the whole puberty ordeal she'll be forced to endure for the next three or four years. But, assuming she makes it through all of that in one piece, she's going to be another little Prim.

Or, in other words, beautiful. Give it three years and I'm going to look like an old crone next to the two of them.

Something to look forward too.

"Well, now." I say, trying not to look too pleased with myself. "Well now, _well now_." Salm sits cross legged on the floor in front of me, uninterested in the beautification process, and instead finds more wonder in examining a book of assorted influential Capitol poets from the last decade that I picked up for a steal at Madam Vendeur's a few months ago. It's illustrated, as are most books from the Capitol are. Personally I think it's a waste, but I guess the more literary inclined Capitol citizens simply can't fathom reading a book without something to distract them from the dull business of actually reading the words.

"Would you like to see yourself?" I ask, as she stares intently at the tropical paradise too perfect to ever have existed inked onto the page. With great reluctance the girl lifts her eyes from the page to the mirror, floor length in a tarnished gaudy bronze frame. She regards her angelic appearance with pure indifference. She turns to me with large hopeful '_are we done now_?' eyes.

I sigh. What's the point of possessing beauty if you don't revel in it?

"Yes, alright." I say, putting my hands up in mock frustration. "We're finished. Go on, go find some food or something, you seem to like that."

Her smile couldn't be wider.

…

(Gale)

I do a double take as the girl skips her way into the kitchen. Hell. I can see this train crash approaching a mile away, it's going to be like Prim all over again. Love sick greasebags all over the place, smarmy assholes who need to learn to keep hands and _eyes_ to themselves. The girl in question beams at me when she passes, and I know I'm screwed. Boys are idiots most of the time, but you can have a decent, if slightly bizarre conversation with a little girl from the age of five upwards. The smarter ones have you have wrapped around their pinkies within minutes. Posy and Prim, for instance, has been doing it to me for years.

I judge that she's closer to Vicks age than Posy's since she is approaching that colt-stage stage where they're all arms, legs and no-grace. While I'm thinking of it, I make a mental note to keep this girl away from the unfortunately not-quite-pre-pubescent anymore idiot, at least for the next year or two or so. She clutches a book in her hands which she amuses herself with until Undersee, dressed, clean yet still a little ragged and bruised, appears beside her. And _hells teeth_, they could almost be sisters. Imagine it; another little Undersee skipping about the place. I don't think my blood pressure could take it.

Or my liver.

I hastily drop my gaze back to my half-clean half-assembled rifle when Undersee begins scanning the hanger for anyone to talk to but me. Eventually she finds the note that Wheels scribbled for her, explaining how everyone filed out of here about half-an-hour ago. Katniss and Peeta apparently have some fancy-too-doo scheduled in town that they need to attend, one to which my presence thankfully is not a requirement. As to the others, hell if I know, but the blue haired one made a point of informing me they'd be back soon. I, for my part in the exchange, took the time to check out her ass as she sashayed out the door.

I glance up at the scraping sound of the chair being pulled back and the thud as the girl hurls herself enthusiastically into the seat next to me at the grimy table. She shoves the pages of a book under my nose, the scene reveals small patch of words surrounded by a paradise of lush woodland and exotic animals. Most of which I've never seen and are probably extinct. She jabs at the page, and then at my chest. The curious tilt to her head signifies, I think, that she is asking me if I like it.

"Nice." I tell her, simply. "Not as good as the real thing though."

She nods her agreement and quietly busies herself with her book, humming a tune I am not familiar with. Throughout this interaction I can practically feel Undersee's eyes burning a hole straight through me. She's leaning against the frame, arms crossed, brow wrinkled in a pensive expression. I fight down the urge to lift my head and tell her to quit it, but this will start a fight, which is probably what she wants. It's irritating though, and eventually I become pissed as my fingers begin to fumble clumsily over the respective gun-parts under her gaze, eventually I give it up all together and dump the rear sight I had been polishing on the table.

"Can I _help_ you with something?" I ask as civilly as I can when vexation seems to be pricking in my veins.

"You're ambidextrous." Madge states, after a moments pause, her head tilted to the side; always the left, never the right. "I never noticed before."

"Why would you?" I grunt, picking up the scope now, to begin polishing the lenses. Hoping she'll drop whatever bizarre attempt at conversation this is. All things considering, I can't help but get a little antsy when Undersee starts talking to me like a actual human being.

She shrugs, one shouldered. "It's an unusual... _talent, _is all." Through the now very clean, and therefore very reflective glass of the scope lense, I watch her pick her way through the kitchen to the cupboards behind me, she pours herself a glass of juice and then one for the little girl. _And no Madge, I'm not thirsty, but thanks anyway._ "Mother was." She continues, her back to me at the counter. "Ambidextrous, I mean. That was why she was an exceptional pianist, when she was younger." She turns and makes a odd face, thinking that I can't see her. "Or so I was told."

"_Fascinating_." I drawl, scrubbing at a particularly tough speck of dirt on the barrel. "Does this conversation have a point?"

Inwardly, I'm a little surprised that Madge would volunteer any information on the subject of her parents. Particularly the Mother. Usually that's a big no-go area. The only time I've heard her even touch on the subject was after she tried and failed to off herself in my bloody bedroom. Admittedly, that was back when she was a stark raving loon, a stage I am very fucking thankful she grew out of.

"Just making conversation Mr. Social." She snips, getting her panties all twisted and bunched.

I roll my eyes. "That bored are you?"

"More or less." She replies, taking a seat and reaching forward to pull the pile of clean gun parts towards her. The room is filled with the rattling of metal as, for reasons known only to her crazy self, she begins to assemble my rifle for me.

Instinctively my hand reaches out towards it protectively. Wouldn't put it past the lunatic to mess to with my beautiful darling. "Be careful with those." I warn. And now it's her turn to roll her eyes.

"Relax," She replies, fitting the parts together with, hard to admit, flawless precision and speed. "_You_ were the one who taught me how to do this. If you do recall."

"Be hard to forget." I shudder, thinking of all the bullshit I had to go through with her then.

A few moments of quiet pass as I clean and polish the last of the parts and lay them out for her. I watch her fingers, under the pretence of making sure she's fitting everything together correctly, which she is. Madge has a natural aptitude of things like this, steadiest pair of hands I've ever seen. She doesn't fumble once, and I get so caught up in watching her movements that I barely register she is attempting to talk to me again.

"Huh?"

She snorts. "I said, how's the homicidal girlfriend these days?"

"_I_ don't have girlfriends." I tell her, which is true, even back home - you don't really have the time for anything more than hasty groping and messy kisses when you've got to feed a family of five, though I do know who she's referring too.

"Well, '_the last woman you had sex with that wasn't a debauched one night stand_' doesn't have quite the same ring too it." By her tone, you can tell she's not a fan of my 'lifestyle'. Her, Ma and Katniss should get together weekly and bitch about it, form protest rallies outside my front door, they could even get jackets.

"_Johanna_ has a name, and she's fine." Last I heard. Which was a few weeks ago. She'll find me when she wants to see me. As she usually does. "I'll be sure to pass on your regards."

"I'd rather not have my name brought up while you two are copulating." Madge snipes, the light dusting of freckles on her nose bunching in disgust. "But thanks all the same."

I can't help but bark out a laugh at her wording. "Copulate?" I question through a grin. "Why can't you just call it '_fucking_' like anyone else?" Her cheeks even flush pink at the word. Hilarious.

"Because I have class." She sniffs. "Which is more then I can say for some."

"Frigid." I counter, half under my breath.

"Disease incubator." She returns, glaring. His expression is all pink tinged indignation. She looks exactly buttercup when you ruffle his fur the wrong way. I tell her so too. Predictably, this gets her even more incensed.

"Yes, well you look like a beard with an idiot hanging off it." She snaps. "So I wouldn't be quick to comment if I were you."

"Alright. Alright." I say, holding up my hands. "Retract the claws Buttercup. We won't mention the f-u-c-k-i-n-g word if it upsets you." A part of me realises that I'm probably enjoying this way too much, but it's easily ignored. It's not everyday I get Undersee on the retreat.

"Congratulations." Her tone scorches, and if her lips get any thinner they'll disappear. "_You can spell._"

The conversation lapse into silence then, broken only by the muted sound of metal clinking against metal. "There." She says coldly, through by comparison her cheeks still bare the slightest pink tinge. She shoves the re-assembled gun over to me with a tight frown, none to gently mind. "No need to check it."

"I know." I check it anyway. Madge rolls her eyes. It's flawless of course, everything fits together as it should, polished and shiny but for a few scratches and dents here and there.

"What about _your_ significant other?" I ask before another cold silence ensues. Madge doesn't answer. She still pissed about the 'frigged' jibe, I can tell. "I'd have thought he'd be still trailing you around. Where is he anyway?"

"Why so interested?" She shoots back, "You hated Dallas."

_Yeah well, he's a prick. _

I don't tell her this though and instead shrug. "You were surgically attached at the hip. His lack of presence here interestingly hasn't been brought up, so now I'm wondering why-" There is a slight, barely perceptual change in her expression, she shifts in her chair, closer towards the girl. Ignoring me. A smile crawls onto my face, I hold up a hand. "Don't tell me, you finally gave him the boot?" Her silence I take as a conformation. I whistle. "Cold princess, even for you. The poor shmuck was crazy about you. Remember when he proposed? That was fun."

I think back to the memory with an inward smile. She turned him down in front of everyone. It wasn't pretty.

Madge, diverting her attention for a moment to the girl, turns the pages of the book forward a few to a picture of ethereal underwater kingdom complete with ornate palace, its intricate coral spires shooting towards the surface. She is riveted. Madge is silent for a long moment.

"Did he cry when you finally chucked him?" I prompt, again to break her silence. I don't know why I'm hitting this point so hard, I don't even care. Not really. Again she says nothing, her lips are pressed into a line so thin they'll liable to disappear completely. "He begged right?" I duck my head trying to meet her eyes to elicit an answer. I get none. "No? Well. Frankly Princess, I'm surprised you had the balls to do it yourself. I sort of got the impression you two were in it for the long haul." Somewhere outside I hear the droning of a hover vehicle approaching. _Finally._

"Come on Salm." Madge says to the girl, Salm, before pushing her chair away from the table, it makes a harsh scarping noise against the cheep floorboards. "They're back." Madge throws me not so much as a backwards glance as they exit.

Huh.

…

**Interlude**

_Your Funeral, My Trial._

**Full Transcript of electronic Interview A-25060 (Undersee, M.) (file 214782)**

_Marked Confidential_

(Dated aprox 8 months previous)

**Alleged identity of parties in custody;** Undersee, Margaret Maysilee. Flight Officer, S9.

**Interviewing Officer;** Salmavitch, Azura. Wing Commander, W1.

[Loud movement sounds. Voices inaudible over noise.]

_Interviewer; _For the record, let it show that it is 4:15am, 17th November of the 79th year PDD. My name is Wing Commander Azura Salmavitch, attached to the first wing, this interview will be conducted with Flight Officer Maragret Undersee. For the purposes of the tape and for voice indentifiction state your full name.

MU; You know who I am commander.

Interviewer; _Undersee._

MU; Princess Consuela Banana Hammock... [A pause] … The third.

_Interviewer_; Let it show, for the purpose of the tape, that Flight Officer Undersee is deliberately and willfully obstructing the course of the interview. Now. Your _real_ name, Undersee, if you please.

MU; [Inaudible mumbling].

_Interviewer_; Speak up Undersee, _clearly._

MU_; [Exhalation of deep breath.] Flight Officer _Undersee, Margaret Maysilee. Born the Sixteenth of the Second, in the 58th year PDD, District 12. Birth Registration number 1019367. Parents; Undersee, Atticus, deceased , born 23rd of the fifth the year 25th PDD, District 2. Donner, Marygold, deceased, born 7th of ninth in the 34th year PDD, District 12. Date of death the- "

_Interviewer_; That will do Undersee, you have provided sufficient evidence as to your identity. Now I have been asked, as such, to convey that your commanding office has been discharged from the Critical wing at the medical centre and is expected to lead a fully functional life despite his injuries.

MU; He's not... [pause]... He's not dead? But I saw... [Brief hesitation]... I saw the Baron go down right in the middle of the battle, it was a direct hit...

_Interviewer_; Certainty it would have been fatal, if you hadn't intervened. In fact, certainly the biggest miracle is that you just_ happened_ to catch the incoming fleet on your entirely_ routine_ boarder patrol, so fortunate. But we both know that isn't exactly the truth. Is it Margaret?

MU; I... yes, play it, I know you have it, they backlog airchat for a reason commander. [Pause]. And don't call me Margaret.

_Interviewer:_ Let the record show that this is a recording taken from the Flight Officers communication logs taking place approximately an hour before the attack on Four.

[Whirring of the tape. Beeping.]

"_Why!? Dal, why did you do it? **How **could you do it?"_

"_For us Baby-Doll. A small fucking fortune I got from it too. We can go anywhere you want now, be anyone you want. We're free Madge! Don't you see? So relax. This is what we've been talking about, this is was the big score we've been waiting for for so-"_

"_NO! Not. Like. This. People will die and for what? So we can "live the good life". You've murdered thou-"_

"_Everything I do, I do for us Maggie. We're set now, you don't need to worry about your gifted little mind about any more scams or boost runs, Just-"_

"Please _Dal, cut the sentimental crap, it's _**me**_ you're talking to. You didn't do this **for the **_**money**_ and you sure as hell didn't do it for me_**.**_ I know you Dallas, I know you better than you know yourself. So don't you put this on me, don't you DARE put this on me. I DIDN'T-"_

"_Oh but you did Baby. _[Audible Chuckling]_ Where else did you think I got the information from? The march on Four was hushidy-hush. That backward district goatfuck t**hat you need not concern yourself about anymore**, made damn sure of that. Pity though _[More chuckling]_ that no squads are going have enough notice to get there in time, re-inforcements might've really helped him surv-_

_[A high tone, signalling the locking on of missile targeting systems]_

"_**You son-of-a-bitch.**" _

"_Come now, Sweetness don't be angry. We can go back to base and have a good chat about what we're going to do with the huge pile of gold that I got sittin' there, that'll make you feel better and I know you ain't got it in you to pull that trigg-"_

_[White noise.]_

MU: It's my fault.

_Interviewer_: On the record? Not at all, not at all. If not for your decisive and quick thinking our Jay's would have never made it in time. You single handedly removed a traitor and personally took down numerous Jabberjays in the fray, if not for you, District Four would have been-"

MU: Obliterated. Because, in case it has escaped your notice Commander,_ It was._ And that's on me. All of it. So If you'd just give me my discharge papers or the date of my execution I'll be ever so grateful-"

_Interviewer:_ Execution? Don't be foolish girl. You're to be given the Purplejay, you're a war hero-."

MU: [Violent retching].

Interviewer: [Sigh] We'll need a clean up in room 4. Interview Concluded.**  
**

**….**

A/n; Revised. So much, lordie lord.

- Is.

…


	14. Died this Way

**Wrong, in all the right ways.**

_Chapter Ten_

Died this Way

…

(Gale)

"I don't think time has jumped forward any substantial amount since you checked your watch a minute ago Cheesy Buns." I comment as I watch him go to check for the fiftieth time in the last half-hour. Sheepishly he drops the pocket watch back into the inner pocket of his tux. It's an item I have never seen him without, presumably as it's the only thing capable of timing his womanly cycle.

"Katniss doesn't normally take this long to get ready." He whines, running a hand through his hair and glancing out the dingy kitchen window into the slowly setting sun. "We're going to be late."

I ignore the fact that I don't really know how long Catnip takes to get ready these days and raise my flask to my lips, relishing the burn as it dulls my throat allowing me to force out the phrase, "And the problem is…?"

"I hate being late." He pouts. _Actually fucking pouts. _I turn away disgusted. Anyone with actual man bits shouldn't be able to make their face form that expression. But hell, I'm just lucky I don't have to go. Undersee and most of her delinquents, Rory included are going out to the fancy shing-dig.

Not me.

An Undersee free night with the possibility of nothing more entertaining to do than drinking myself into oblivion. Not the best Saturday I've had in my life but it beats cramming myself into a monkey suit and greasing around with the high-ups any day of the week.

"Right." I state, flicking my eyes back to watching the flare of the sun sink behind a distant line of trees on the horizon. "Well, Undersee _is_ up there with her. We all know she can spend all day preening herself to perfection in front of the mirror." I pause a thoughtful moment then add the obligatory, "Well, right up until she cracks it anyway."

Peeta slides me a sideways look. "Come on. You're not the least bit relieved? She could have been easily killed out there." The derisive snort I can't contain answers that one for me. "Or," He persists, "Do you just have your panties in a twist because you owe her – _Again_ - She _has_ been keeping an eye on your brother."

The corner of my mouth reflexively twitches down at that. More than an eye if you hear him talk about it, like they're already shacked up. '_Madge did this and Madge did that and Madge yada yada'_. Who cares? Not like I never taught him anything of use, like say, how to feed yourself and not die.

"Yeah, my thank you note is in the mail." I reply taking another drink. "And I don't owe her shit. Not like he would have needed looking after back in thirteen."

"Bull_shit_." Peeta overrides instantly. "We all know, including Madge, what would have happened if he'd been shipped out to the front. You more than any of us, they actually give _you_ the correct death tolls."

_That they do and thanks for the reminder_, I think sourly before push the thought of the last report and the sickening size of the numbers to the back of my mind, pulling forward the frosting prince's much more pleasant point. He's right. The balance again shifts in Undersees favor. I stare down at my flask and see my distorted reflection grimacing back at me.

Seems like I'm beholden to the lunatic once again. I sigh unhappily at the thought and resolve to get her a puppy for her birthday or something.

"Don't look so glum," Peeta continues, interpreting my moment of contemplative silence for a cue to start flapping his gums. Glancing down at his watch_ yet again_ as he thinks I'm not looking.

"You don't hate her nearly as much as you make out that you do."

I scoff and fold my arms. "Catch me sneaking off to pen love letters to her at every given opportunity do you?"

A grin spreads from ear to ear on his pasty-ass mug. "No. But I did catch the look on your face she when over the rail today."

Look? Must have been that keen sense of disappointment I felt when I thought I wouldn't be the one to off her personally.

"Right Cheesy-buns," I genuinely laugh. " I wouldn't give up your day job because you would make a real shitty quack." I pause, musing for a moment and tapping my chin. "Wait. Remind me. What is that_ oh-so-useful_ thing you do again?"

"The Mockingjay." He replies without missing a beat.

Well,_ fuck you_ _too_ asshole.

Another long pull from the flask does the trick of dulling my impulse to do something Katniss would regret.

Peeta huffs as the conversation lulls whipping out his watch even as we hear the unintelligible yet familiar voices of the girls as they approach from the upper platform. "You could have had a real chance with her, you know that?" I can't help but shrug him off like he's some crazy leper when he moves to clasp me on the shoulder as she makes his way past me.

"Right. Cheesy-buns. Put a good word in for me." I reply sarcastically. "And the next time Undersee flings herself onto my dick, I'll be sure to give you a thanks."

I can't help but pity how misguided his view is on how the real world actually works. I mean, _hells teeth_, did this guy ever even live in twelve?

He ignores this or his very selective hearing suddenly emerges as he moves to stand at the end of the stairs and watch Katniss descend with stars in his eyes. Her hair is down, spilling over her shoulders like silk and probably feels as soft, so I can't really blame him. I'm careful to stuff my flask back into my jacket before wondering over a second later.

…

(Madge)

"So what's the deal with yourself and the not-really-Cousin?" Myff queries too casually to be casual as soon as Katniss departs for the showers. I'm in the middle of curling my hair. I was going for the cascading waterfall of curls look but at this rate I'll settle for anything but the charming -just-got-electrocuted-and-lived look.

"Deal? As in...?" I question half-listening, wincing multiple times as she slaps a large scoopful of bruise balm on my arms and shoulders and begins to rub. The stuff is expensive and imported only for the capitol, I managed to get snatch a small tub and it nearly cost me an arm and a leg. Literally. But that's another story altogether.

"Well, you grew up together. Presumably. And _by-the-way_ I have not forgotten about that little nugget you've been keeping from us." In the mirror I can see her expression is genuinely wounded. I don't know why really, I never lied_ per se_ about where I was from or who I was, with my family name people just made assumptions that perhaps I never really bothered to correct.

"It was never relevant and is _not_ open to discussion." I reply flatly, poker faced.

Myff knows me well enough to know when she's on a fruitless fishing expedition and somewhat drops the subject but not before shooting me a dirty look that I pretend I don't see. "So, you and the cousin never...?"

"Don't be disgusting." I shudder, sickened by the very thought although relieved slightly to be off the topic of District 12. If only slightly. "Have you actually seen that unwashed miscreant?"

"Why yes, in fact I most definitely have." She drawls with a tone that is suggestive enough, but the expression on her face is almost comical.

I narrow my eyes as it dawns on me. "_Ah, s_o Hawthorne's why you're staying behind tonight, hmm?" Figures. Myff was never one to miss a party without a good reason.

"It wounds me El-Tee." She declares righteously, hand over her bleeding heart."That you don't think the protection and safety of the base, _nay_ the entire district aren't my foremost concern."

"I can not believe you were able to say that with a straight face and not spontaneously combust."

"So no jealous hang ups then?" She grins, turning the questioning back to me. "Because from the way you two are constantly going at it-"

I ignore the suggestive in the sentence. We are not constantly 'at' anything.

"_I _don't have jealous hang ups." I reply loftily. "Particularly not with _that_ stained mattress. And," I add interjecting my tone with a bit of authority, waggling my finger at her. "As your _superior_ officer I forbid you and various body parts to go anywhere near him."

Last thing I need is Hawthorne sewing his wild oats in my squad. I wince a little as my imagination runs screaming away from the mental images that thought almost brings.

"_Forbidden_ you say Lt?" She gives me a too innocent-it's-provocative stare in the mirror.

I open my mouth to start… er, forbidding even more. But then realise I'm probably just making it all more tempting for her and so have nothing else to do but close my face and seethe internally. Stupid Hawthorne. Of all the people who deserved to be born ugly but weren't, he tops the list. I bet he does it on purpose, just to spite me.

Asshole.

At which point in my mental monologue I don't even know what I'm actually annoyed about anymore or why. I take a deep breath, exhale my irritation make myself accept the fact, that like termites, it's hard to keep Hawthorne out of something when he wants to be in there. And yes, that does include members of my squad.

"Fine." I grumble, defeated. "But do_ not_ think you're giving me the gorey details." I pause and think about it for a moment, "Or diseases. Your mouth is never going near mine again." This last sentence I bring down with an air of finality.

"Lucky last time then." Myff pouts pulling my face back to face her, I get half a startled yelp out before her soft and familiar lips creash against mine, its forceful enough to almost make me drop the curler and for a moment I am distracted, with her hands knotting in my hair and her tongue swiping at my lips – _She smells so lovely-_ I move my own into the familiar rhythm before I realise it, eliciting a familiar noise – her sigh caught between our mouths, when she pulls away unexpectedly I'm left wide eyed with slightly swollen lips

"Deviant Opportunist." I gripe, trying unsuccessfully to cover a blush as Myff, recovering from her insanity, obligingly takes up the lost cause of my hair and begins to sculpt it back into something vaguely resembling presentable.

"But anyway," I can't help but get back onto the main point after a moment watching her fingers work magic. "I thought you weren't really into those of the male persuasion. And I'm about 99 percent sure that Hawthorne is, you know, a man." Can't really deny that one, unfortunately.

The guy speaks in monosyllables, you don't get much more male than that after all.

"I can make a few exceptions. Pretty toys are so very hard to come by these days." She sends me a sly look, curling a stand of my hair around her finger. "You know, you could always stay back. We could put on a bit of a show, just like Dal used to lo-Or_ not_." She amends quickly upon seeing my incredulous expression which speaks volumes about how that is a thing that will _never_, _ever_ happen.

"Or not what?" Katniss's curious voice suddenly jumps out at us from the door way.

"Nothing." I quip as soon as my heart resumes beating, shooting Myff a look in the mirror that ensures exactly that. I turn to Katniss whose hair is dripping wet and slide off the seat in front of the mirror.

"Your turn, I think." Our mighty Mockingjay actually looks quite frightened by the prospect. Though I don't think Myffs maniacal laughter and the swish of the scissors as she frantically open and closes then like a mad woman helps much in that regard.

"Funny." Katniss responds dryly, clearly not seeing the humour before throwing herself into the chair with a sigh of resignation, submitting herself to our mercy.

…

(Gale)

"Can't believe you weaseled your way out of this." Katniss gripes when she turns to me, Mellark's hand cinched around her waist.

A self satisfied grin spreads itself onto my face anyway. "Yeah, well, not really my thing you know Catnip." I scuff my boots on the floor. "Might get mud on the carpet."

"And he would have actually had to shower." Undersee butts in, heels making sharp click-clacks on the stairs. Her face assumes mock horror.

"Yeah well, showers require effort and effort requires me to give a shit and giving a shit would require me to actually want to spend time in the same room_ as you_." I tell her breasts, now the highlight of my evening so far.

All bruises, superficial cuts and any other souvenirs from our little adventure yesterday are gone. Her dress is a not-so-virginal white number, a particular fondness of hers, cut in a way that makes the folds of silky fabric hang loose from some mysterious point under her rack. The effect is less sexy than it is sweet, cute, _adorable_. If you're into that sort of thing.

Personally I like my ladies with a bit more edge to them. I like them to be real and frankly, not like fake little porcelain doll hybrids.

"Always the charmer Hawthorne, I really don't know how we're going to enjoy ourselves without your pleasant and optimistic attitude." She deadpans, eyes narrowing when she clicks on to the fact that I've not exactly interested in her _wit_ right now, if you get me. "Eye up here, Neanderthal."

"But these are so much more interes-Ah, fuck,_ nails._" I whine and flinch away when she pinches me. _And draws blood. _

"_Better." _She warns in a stern voice meet my eyes when I look at her. Her typically light lashes are dark and her lips red. She smiles and it predicts my impending doom before she pushes roughly past me, her perfume itching my nose as she does so.

"Are we leaving any time soon? I don't want to get there after everyone's already drunk." The little girl totters past me, staring wondrously at the pretty green dress Undersee managed to procure from thin air for her.

"Too late for some I'd reckon," Wheels growls as he and the rest file out from behind the door leading to the mens quarters. Rory, looking sharp in a suit of his own, unruly hair wet from being combed back, steps out bashfully. I catch his eye and give him a discreet approving nod. Scrubs up well the kids does. Madge, Blue hair and eye-patch all whistle with varying degrees of skill as he steps up to them, his cheeks visibly red, picking at his tie and looking uncomfortable.

"See you didn't shower either, what is it with _you_?" Undersee frowns and then brightens at looking at him. "You clean up well at any rate." She licks her finger to rub a smudge of dirt from his check, much to his chagrin and mine. Ma used to do that. In the effort of preserving some dignity Rory swats her hand away when she then tries to re-arrange his hair. Fortunately she's to occupied to notice the dopey ass grin on to his face. Pathetic. And unsettling seeing a resemblance to Mellark on the face of my family.

"Alright. Let's go."

And they do. Catnip grimacing and making forlorn glances back at me as she goes. I give her my most shit eating grin and wave. She sticks her tongue out and makes a rude gesture. I pocket it and grin, enjoying the rarity of the exchange. How natural it feels, almost like old times.

"Oh and If the base is burnt down when I get back, I'll be _very_ disappointed." Undersee calls because she obviously loves the sound of her own voice that much.

"Well, you know how I'd_ hate _to disappoint you." I drawl because it's like being threatened by a babby rabbit.

"Don't worry, El-T," Blue hair chimes favouring me with a nice little wink which speaks volumes about who she'll be spending her night doing. "I'll make sure to keep a good ol' eye on this one to prevent any… _shenanigans._"

Favouring her with a grin and a once over I conclude that, despite blue not really being my colour tonight is beginning to look promising. Quite promising.

Further improving the situation is Undersee's disgusted snort as she slams the door behind her. Both Blue Hair and I watch until the Hovercar is a plume of dust in our vision.

"So, shall we take this back to your place or mine." Blue purrs with a cocky little quirk that indicates she's not really asking a question. I smirk when a sudden, delicious, alternative occurs to me.

"I've got somewhere else in mind."

_(some time later)_

"You don't mind?" She asks, eyes all half lidded after lighting a long green stick and bringing it to her lips. I shake my head, stretching out, nice and comfortable on the sheets having just caught my breath. In the gloom I watch the little flare of light and how it droops lazily between her fingers when she exhale, her smile is long and languid with satisfaction as she turns towards me.

"Well, that was a bit of alright if I do say so myself. You?" She asks, then tugs playfully at the hem of my shirt which I haven't take off. I smirk and leaning over to the side table, fish my pants from off the shade of the lamp. It's red and casts a muted tinges and shadows around in the room.

Standing to shrug my pants on, Blue hair looks at my fully clothed self regretfully."You sure don't fuck like one the of shy ones handsome." She leans back and makes herself comfortable and doesn't at all seem to mind when I don't slide back onto the bed.

"Yeah. Well, I'm full of surprises like that."

"Don't_ I_ know it." She laughs, eyes flickering down to my crotch with an impish little look that hey, I'll be the first to admit is a bit of an ego boost. "Don't suppose you're up for a round two?"

Now its my turn to laugh, glancing down a little sheepishly. "He's not really locked and loaded at the moment sweets." On reflex I favour her with a wink despite the gloom. "Hit me up after the kids have poured themselves into bed and I might be able to muster some strength."

"_Men_." She sighs with comical melodrama. "You all have such poor stamina." She jabs her death stick at me, a trickle of ash burning a hole in the sheets. "Mostly why I stick to the ladies."

"Don't blame you." I chuckle. "Mostly the reason why I do too. Well-" I glance around contemptuously at the general chaos and disorganisation of the room. Just looking at it makes my brain itch. I can't even fathom how a sane person could live in this. "-_Most _of them."

"Oh ho," Blue starts, haling twin clouds from her nostrils that snake their way to the ceiling. "That didn't take you long. Tell me, what exactly is the deal between you and our fair El-Tee?" She gives me a shrewd glance. "She doesn't owe you money or anything?"

My eyebrows raise in surprise. "No. But interesting you would ask."

"Eh." She shrugs waving the statement off and casually ashing her death stick in a white vase next to the bed, the long dead bunch of gnarled stems and dried rose petals don't seem to mind. "You never know with Business these days." She waves her cigarette irately. "The fucking respect has gone way out of the game in recent months. Can't walking down the main drag in eleven without some snot nosed little hustler working for the-" I'm not quick enough to conceal my nonplussed expression and she catches it. "-Ah. Never you mind that."

Business?

"Sure." My mind process this merge amount of information into one conclusion. Madge getting involved in things she can't handle. "She in trouble?" The questions comes out sharper then I intend.

"Not." I add hastily."That I care." Just in case anyone were to get the wrong idea.

Surprisingly Blue laughs. "Yeah, trouble. That's Emmie all over." The fact that my interest is piqued must be pretty obvious because she flaps a dismissive hand at me, still chuckling. "I wouldn't stress a pretty hair on your pretty head about her."

Right. My eyebrows raise further in disbelief. "The only reason that lunatic is not a corpse a couple of times over is because of luck." _And me_. I think sourly. No concept of gratitude either, the brat.

Blue shoots me a puzzled look for a moment. "Now _that _is interesting." More to herself than me.

"Because...?"

"Because..." For a moment her expression is pained, torn. "Well, to be honest with you Handsome. The way you lot act, our glorious Mockingjay included, it's like you think she's..." She pauses, her hand swirling the death stick, sending spirals of smoke upwards in her search for the word.

"An uppity little Brat?" I supply unhelpfully. I mean, that's how _I _treat her.

"No." Her tone makes it clear that she doesn't appreciate the remark or the tone, so I zip it until she continues. "_Normal_. You all treat her like she's just a regular person. Like she's not..."

"Better than everyone else?" I supply, sarcasm not quite concealing my anger as the subject presses some physiological nerve I've worked hard to bury these past years. "Look, I'll grant you once upon a time that might've been the case. She was the could-do-no-wrong mayors daughter. The _precious _princess who had to play piano in the musical every year because no one else could _afford t_o learn how, the girl who wore white dresses in a place where everyone else was permanently covered in _coal._ She payed extra for strawberries _while the rest of us starved_." I not quite snarl, pacing a few steps before looking down on her half naked form which she makes no attempt to cover. "But just because she's been treated like she's hot shit her whole life doesn't mean squat now. She _is_ normal, no different to every other _entitled prick _whose spent their lives living off a broke system "

Not unlike yourself, I want to point out but don't.

"Really think you've got her pegged, don't you?" I note her smile, lazy and uncaring to the point of provocation.

_Why? _A part of me thinks. _Does it always end in an argument._

"Do you?" I sneer, half turning to make my way to the door because clearly this is over.

"Better than most I'd say." Lazy smoke rings puff from her mouth. "I haven't met some unspeakably horrible end, not like say, _Dal_ for instance." She casually puts out the butt of her stick against the bedside table and smiles without warmth when I turn back to her, appalled as I think back to our conversation earlier today. Undersee didn't even blink, didn't even _mention_ it.

Like any self respecting woman would, Blue hair jumps on my moment of weakness. "Oh, wait." Her laugh is surprised but cruel, she's enjoying this. "This is too _de-lish_ you mean you didn't_ know_? You mean that precious little mayors daughter _lied_ to you." Her hand darts to the table on her side, pulls something out and chucks it to me suddenly. "Join the club."

If I'd been a shade slower I'd have dropped it. The metal is cool and unyielding in my hand, the colour distorted but still clearly purple. The pin is in the familiar shape of a bird. I have one of these. The purple Jay. The medal given for valor and special service to the rebellion. "What's this."

"It's what they gave to the person who prevented the massacre at Four from being an absolute _bloodbath_." She wipes faux tears from her unnaturally coloured eyes. "The story behind it is really quite tragic, I can assure you."

The metal is heavy in my hand as I turn it over. The name _Flight Officer Undersee, Margaret Maysilee_, is engraved on the back.

"What does that have to do with-?" The question comes unbidden to my lips but doesn't quite form as in the same instant I hear the soft hum and the crunch as gravel is disturbed somewhere outside. Doors slam shut, raucous laughter and merriment follow.

"Isn't that just perfect timing." Blue purrs eyeing me like a Cheshire cat, smug. "Perhaps you should ask her yourself. _I'd _be very interested to hear what she feeds you. " To that parting shot I have nothing to say and so don't. She gathers her clothes and slides off the bed naked as the day she was born, past me and out the door.

Feeling uneasy I pocket the medal, sweep Undersee's disordered lair with a last glare as though it will unveil some obvious and rational explanation. When it doesn't I disappear from the room a few seconds after her.

The party seems to continue downstairs for a bit but I'm faking dead-to-the-world sleep well when Rory slops into bed some time later, humming a tune and smelling faintly of perfume and alcohol. And I can't believe the Kid drinks now, apparently, and hell it's pretty, but you know, I was sort of looking forward to being the one to take him out for his first drink.

In reality I spend the night buzzing. Unable to drift into slumber with thoughts whirling and bouncing off each other until I see the sky lighten outside and quietly chug the rest of my flask which will more or less puts me into oblivion for a few hours.

One of the old nightmares wake me far too soon after. I wake, sweat drenched from ghosts of fire and death to the flickering glow of flame outside the open window which has my knife steady in my hand. Approaching the sill and expecting firebombs I am rewarded with the ethereal sight of Undersee outside, swathed in a white nightdress.

Setting fire to what appears to be her mattress.

_…_

_OMG._

Totes forgot Salm existed for most of this. Thank you lovely reviewer.

Sorry it's been so long.

Proofing fails are on me as always.

Peace.


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